#me casually reaching out to ao3 automatically

[whenitcomestodeath]

spn 3x12 but just henriksen and dean eye fucking throughout the episode got me screaming by the end of it

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 4

Word Count: 11.9k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, noncon, dubcon, drugging, kidnapping, obedience training, forced breeding, forced pregnancy, stalking, pet names like kitten, sweetie, pretty, ownership, manipulation, attempted rape, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti, @m0onlustre, @ve1vet-cake @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglamela, @connorsui @iluvmewwwww75 , @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer @mysssticc @babygirl-panda19 @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1

AN: Bit of a late upload for you night owls and a nice surprise for my early risers! Someone tell me to stop making the chapters longer, thank you LOL. This chapter was a lot of fun to write and I hope you guys enjoy! This is on AO3 as usual! :D

"So… uh, what’s your dog’s name?" you asked, trying to keep up the conversation and maybe get him to reveal more. Your voice was casual, but inside, your nerves were on high alert. "Dog? What dog?" he said absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the window. His response was automatic, dismissive, as if he hadn’t even registered the question. "You...said that noise earlier was your dog? Right?"

Read Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3 Pt.5

Xavier drummed his fingers rhythmically on the glass counter, each tap growing more impatient as the seconds stretched on. His eyes darted around the cluttered store, scanning the shelves filled with everything from worn-out sneakers to high-end dress shoes. The store clerk had disappeared into the back room several minutes ago, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Xavier wasn't entirely sure what he was hoping to find here.

He had strolled in with nothing more than a photo of a shoe print—a faint clue at best—but it felt more productive than sitting idly by, doing nothing while the answers to your disappearance slipped further out of reach. At least this was action, however uncertain.

Was this even a tangible way to find you? Was he grasping at straws, wasting precious time on a hopeless lead?

And the most haunting question of all—were you even still alive?

Xavier squeezed his eyes shut, as if closing them tightly enough could block out the flood of dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t afford to let his mind go there, not now. Pushing the fear and uncertainty away, he tried to focus on the faint glimmer of hope that had brought him here in the first place. Anything was better than surrendering to despair.

"This is all I could find on it. It's certainly a unique pair," the shop clerk continued, offering a slight smile. "I'm not as technologically advanced as most shops around here, so sorry to disappoint. But, may I ask—why come to my little shop instead of one of those fancy places downtown?"

Xavier took the pamphlet, glancing over the information quickly before shifting his gaze back to the clerk. "Well," he began, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I heard you were the kind of guy who could identify a pair of shoes just by its print."

The clerk chuckled softly, his weathered face creasing with the effort. "You've been a great help, actually," Xavier added, sliding the pamphlet into his jacket pocket with a nod of appreciation.

The clerk gave an approving nod, the lines of his face softening in quiet satisfaction before he turned his back again, settling into the familiar rhythm of his work. Xavier headed toward the door, the faint creak of floorboards beneath his boots echoing through the small, dimly lit shop. His hand hovered over the door handle, but just as his fingers brushed the cool metal, a nagging thought rooted him in place. He paused, heart pounding slightly as the question formed in his mind.

He turned back, the weight of uncertainty pulling at his voice. "Say... you wouldn’t happen to know where this shoe was originally made, would you?"

The clerk stopped, mid-motion, his hands faltering over a pile of worn soles. The question seemed to hang in the air, drawing out a moment of silence as the man stared down, his brow furrowing. It was clear he hadn’t thought about it in some time. Xavier felt a flicker of hope, unsure if it would lead him anywhere, but desperately clinging to the possibility.

The clerk finally turned, his face thoughtful, his voice quieter now. "Yeah..." he said slowly, as if pulling the memory from a fog. "Last I saw of that shoe, it came from a company based in the... er, N1—no, wait..." His brow furrowed deeper as he worked to piece it together. "N109 Zone. Yeah, that’s the one."

His words hung in the air, carrying a weight Xavier couldn’t ignore. The clerk’s tone wasn’t just casual recollection—it was tinged with something more, like the memory of that particular shoe stirred something deeper. Xavier felt the knot of tension in his chest tighten.

Xavier felt his breath catch in his throat. N109 Zone. The name alone sent a chill down his spine. He had heard plenty about that place—mostly rumors, but enough to know that it was a dangerous, lawless sector. Few dared to go there unless they had no other choice, and even fewer came back with stories worth telling. It was a no-man’s-land, a forgotten corner of land where control was lost long ago. The kind of place where people disappeared without a trace.

His mind raced, piecing it together. If the shoe had come from there... Did that mean you were there too? His stomach churned at the thought. The faint hope he had clung to started to blur with the creeping dread of what fate could have fallen upon you in the N109 Zone.

"You’re sure about that?" he asked, his voice betraying the slight anxiety creeping in around the edges. The clerk glanced up from his work, noticing the shift in Xavier’s tone.

"Yeah," the clerk said, more firmly this time. "I’m sure. That shoe—rare brand—hard to forget. The company folded years ago, but they used to operate out of the N109 Zone. Only place I’ve ever seen them sold."

Xavier swallowed hard, the words sinking deep. If the shoe came from N109, it could be a clue—a dangerous one, but still the only lead he had. He felt the urgency building inside him, a gnawing sense that time was running out, but also the undeniable question of what he might find if he went there.

Could you really be in a place like that? His mind struggled to fill in the gaps, but there were too many unknowns. Were you okay?

"I...appreciate your help," Xavier muttered, his voice thick with tension. He clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to steady his breathing.

"You're not actually thinking of going there, are you?" the store clerk asked, his voice edged with disbelief as he raised an eyebrow. He leaned slightly forward over the counter, studying Xavier with a mixture of concern and amusement. "No offense, but a pretty fella like you doesn’t exactly look like the type who could survive in a place like that. Not really worth the hassle for a pair of shoes don't you think?"

Xavier paused, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn’t turn around immediately, letting the weight of the clerk’s words linger for a moment. Finally, he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression calm, almost casual. "I'll be fine," he said, his voice steady, though the tension in his body remained. "I've dealt with much worse."

The clerk blinked, surprised by Xavier's calm demeanor, but said nothing more.

Xavier turned to face the door once again, his hand resting on the handle as he prepared to step out into the cold streets. "Thanks again," he added, his tone carrying a finality that didn’t invite more questions.

Without waiting for a response, he pushed open the door and walked out, leaving the shop behind. His heart pounded a little harder now, not just from the looming threat of the N109 Zone, but from the resolve building inside him. There was no turning back now.

He had a tangible clue—a real, solid lead to your whereabouts. For the first time in weeks, the haze of uncertainty lifted ever so slightly. But now that he knew you were possibly in one of the most dangerous areas anyone could imagine, time was no longer on his side. Every second that ticked by felt heavier, pulling him deeper into the urgency of the situation. The N109 Zone wasn’t just dangerous; it was a place where people vanished, a place where hope died. He had no time to waste, but rushing in blindly would be suicide. He needed a plan.

Stepping into the cold evening air, Xavier pulled the pamphlet from his jacket pocket, its crinkled edges soft from being handled. His eyes scanned over the contents carefully. Make and model—simple enough, not much help now. A detailed diagram of the shoe—useful for recognition, maybe, but not a lifeline. Then his eyes caught something else—a faint address printed near the top. It was partially worn, barely legible, but there.

His heart skipped a beat. An address? Could this be where the shoe was made? Or where it was sold? Either way, it was another piece of the puzzle, and right now, it was the closest thing to a breadcrumb trail he had. He squinted at the faded letters, trying to make out every detail.

If this address was in the N109 Zone, it could lead him right into the heart of the danger. But it could also lead him to you.

His mind raced. First, he needed to confirm the location. Then he needed a plan—something better than just walking straight into the N109 Zone and hoping for the best.

Pulling out his hunter’s watch, Xavier quickly scanned the address printed on the pamphlet. The small device whirred to life, its holographic screen flickering as it worked to process the faint, worn-out text. A soft ding echoed in the quiet street as it started searching for the location. Xavier watched the screen intently, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and apprehension.

The map on the watch blinked, the dot moving erratically across an unmarked, shadowy area. It drifted back and forth, as though even the advanced technology in his hands was confused, struggling to pin down an exact location. Xavier frowned, watching the dot jitter across the screen. His stomach tightened with frustration. Was the address too old? Was it leading him nowhere?

Just when he thought the device might give up entirely, the dot paused. The holographic screen flickered once more, and with a soft chime, it glowed green in confirmation. The hunter's watch had finally locked on to a spot. Xavier stared at it, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. The place it had marked was deep within N109 Zone, tucked away in the heart of the most dangerous, uncharted part of the city.

He exhaled slowly, his mind running through a million possibilities. The watch’s confirmation meant something tangible, something real—but what waited for him there? He couldn’t shake the thought that this could be a trap, a place where the trail might lead to nothing, or worse, to more danger than he could anticipate. But it was also the only clue he had to your whereabouts.

Xavier closed his hand around the watch, feeling its faint warmth through his fingers. He knew what he had to do, but the enormity of it settled on his shoulders. This wasn’t just a simple lead anymore—it was a beacon, calling him into the depths of the N109 Zone. And whatever waited for him there, he would face it.

Because finding you was all that mattered.

As Xavier made his way through the still, empty streets back to his apartment, the first hints of dawn began to creep over the horizon, casting a faint, orange glow across the sky. His mind was already racing, formulating a plan. Gear, weapons,—he’d need everything ready before venturing into the N109 Zone.

But just as he turned the corner, his phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the early morning quiet. Xavier stopped, his brow furrowing as he fished the phone out of his pocket. It was a jarring sound—no one should be calling him at this early hour.

He glanced at the screen, squinting in confusion. The number was unknown, unfamiliar. His immediate thought was Captain Jenna—she was the only one who’d be up this early, possibly reaching out with new intel—but this wasn’t her number.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Unknown number. His instincts screamed caution. In his line of work, random calls at odd hours rarely led to anything good. The number could belong to anyone—a lead, a warning, or worse, a trap.

But then again, it could be something important—something connected to you. He couldn't ignore the possibility.

Should he answer? The phone rang again, and with each buzz, the knot of uncertainty in his stomach tightened. Whoever it was, they wanted to reach him badly enough to call at this ungodly hour.

With a deep breath, Xavier made a decision and swiped to answer the call. "Hello?" His voice was guarded, careful.

For a moment, all Xavier could hear was silence, a thick void that made his pulse quicken. Then, suddenly, the sound of crackling static filled his ears, distorting the line. He frowned, his grip tightening on the phone. The static grew louder, chaotic, until it was abruptly interrupted by a voice—scared, desperate, and unmistakably familiar.

"Xavier? Is that you??"

His heart nearly stopped.

You kept running until your legs gave out, your breath ragged and chest burning, but you couldn’t stop. Not yet. An hour ago, you had been trapped, bound in your captor's suffocating bedroom, that thick invisible leash tightening around your neck with each passing day, stealing your hope, your strength. Every second felt like eternity in that room, but somehow, with some luck of a power outage of all things, you’d broken out of your cage. You’d ran—bolted into the cold night without looking back.

And now, you were almost free.

But “freedom” wasn’t what you had imagined. The streets stretched out before you, bleak and lifeless. It felt wrong. There was no joy in the air, no welcoming breeze to assure you of safety—only the gnawing sense that you had escaped one cage just to enter another. You recalled something Sylus, your captor, had mentioned in passing.

"Its always 'night' here", he'd said with a small smile, and now you truly realized he hadn’t been lying.

Darkness swallowed the entire area, a thick, unnatural veil over everything. Even though your eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, the eerie, half-flickering streetlights cast only dim pools of sickly yellow across the cracked pavement. The shadows loomed, stretching too far, hiding too much. You shivered, not just from the cold but from the haunting silence that wrapped around you.

The air itself felt thick, as if it was suffocating under the weight of secrets too dark, too dangerous to be spoken aloud. Each alley you passed felt like it was watching you, whispering silent threats from the shadows. Exhaustion clung to your limbs, and you had finally stopped, collapsing onto a broken bench under one of the few flickering streetlights that still worked. The cold metal dug into your skin, but you barely noticed. You were too busy trying to catch your breath, to steady your thoughts.

Where do you go now? You scanned your surroundings again, looking for anything that could offer direction, but the streets were as desolate as before. The same cracked pavement, the same looming shadows. No signs. No people. Just an eerie quiet.

A fleeting thought entered your mind—maybe there’s a train station nearby? The idea seemed almost laughable. Would it even take you to Linkon? And would you even make it to a station without getting caught?

You shook your head, mentally cursing yourself for the thought. Hitchhiking was another idea that crossed your mind—no way, you scolded yourself, brushing off the notion as quickly as it came. You probably couldn't trust anyone here. Not in a place like this. Here, trusting a stranger was as reckless as running blind into the dark.

But what other choice did you have? You couldn’t stay still for long; resting too much would make you an easy target. With a deep, shuddering breath, you forced yourself to stand again. Your legs trembled beneath you, but you kept moving, hoping—praying—you’d find someone who wasn’t out to harm you. Something that could help guide you out of this nightmare. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of fear pressing harder on your chest.

As your bare feet dragged across the cracked concrete, the desperation gnawed at you more fiercely. You were lost—physically and mentally. Each street looked the same, the darkness playing tricks on your eyes. Panic swelled in your throat. How long could you keep going like this? How much longer could you walk before your legs gave out? Before someone found you?

Your breaths came quicker, shallow with fear. You needed a way out, but the deeper you walked into the N109 Zone, the more it felt like the place was swallowing you whole. You were running out of time. Running out of hope.

And then finally, as if the cruel universe had decided to grant you another fleeting moment of mercy, you saw it—a faint glow of lights in the distance. Squinting, you could just make out a corner store, its soft, artificial light spilling onto the cracked sidewalk. A few people were loitering outside, giving the place a rare sense of life. A tired-looking woman clutched her child's hand tightly, and a man stood by, lazily smoking a cigar, his eyes scanning the street in disinterest. A couple of others hovered nearby, exchanging quiet words under the dim streetlight.

You couldn't believe your eyes. A store? Here? In the N109 Zone? It seemed almost surreal, like it had been plucked from another world and dropped into this forgotten wasteland. But it made sense in a grim way. Even in a place like this, people have to eat. Make a living.

With a rush of desperate energy, you hurried toward the store, your bare feet slapping against the cold pavement. The people outside cast looks in your direction, but don't say anything. You stopped just short of the entrance, glancing down at yourself for the first time. You must look insane. A nightgown hung loosely around your body, dirty and torn at the edges. No shoes. No socks. Your hair was tangled and wild from the running. The sight of yourself made you wince in embarrassment, but there was no time to care about that now.

Pushing the door open, you were greeted by a dimly lit but surprisingly ordinary scene. The inside of the corner store looked like any other—aisles of candy, snacks, cheap knick knacks and toys stacked high. It was a stark contrast to the dangerous, shadowy streets just outside. But one sight caught your attention above all: the food.

Your stomach growled loudly, twisting with hunger. You hadn’t eaten since the chicken dinner Sylus had provided before your “outburst.” You hadn't been able to finish it, and now the exhaustion from running had made the hunger almost unbearable. Your mouth watered at the thought of eating, but there was one major problem—you had no gold.

Your heart sank as you stared at the rows of candy bars and instant noodles. How were you going to get anything?

Anxiously, you shuffled toward the front counter, your nerves jangling with every step. When you reached it, you hesitated for a moment, staring at the small bell. With trembling fingers, you tapped it.

A disheveled-looking man, his hair sticking out in uneven tufts, glanced up from behind the counter. He had been glued to his phone, and the interruption clearly annoyed him. His eyes landed on you, and for a brief second, he just stared, taking in your disarrayed appearance before rolling his eyes in annoyance.

"Can I...help you?" he asked, dragging out the words as if the very act of speaking was a burden.

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words, but your mind raced with too many conflicting emotions—fear, embarrassment, hunger. What could you even say?

"I've been kidnapped," you blurt out, your voice shaky and desperate. You opened your mouth to explain further, to tell him everything—how you had escaped, how you were on the run, how you needed help—but before you could get another word out, the man snorted.

"Yeah, I've heard that one before," he said dismissively, leaning back on his chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Who hasn't been kidnapped at least once around here?"

His casual tone hit you like a slap. The raw urgency in your voice was met with nothing but apathy. Your heart sank. He wasn’t going to take you seriously. You were just another story in a place like this, another desperate face with nowhere to go. You stood there, frozen, trying to comprehend how someone could be so indifferent to your situation.

You swallowed hard, fighting back the frustration welling up inside you. "Please, I'm serious. I just need—"

"Look," the man interrupted, cutting you off again, his eyes barely lifting from his phone. "You want something, buy it. Otherwise, move along. I’m not here for charity cases."

You glanced at the counter, the rows of candy, snacks, and drinks just inches away, knowing you had nothing to pay with. Desperation clawed at your insides. You were exhausted, starving, and running out of options.

"I don't have any gold... do you ha-have a phone?" you asked again, your voice trembling as you blinked back the hot tears threatening to spill. How could someone be so indifferent to the obvious suffering staring him in the face?

"Broken," he said flatly, still not bothering to look up from his phone. His disinterest was like a physical blow. "And… gold? What are you, some Linkcunt citizen?"

The venom in his words hit you like a slap, and for a moment, you were too stunned to respond. Linkcunt citizen? The insult was harsh, dripping with disdain, and it sent a sudden wave of anger rushing through you.

"Yes, I’m from Linkon," you correct, the frustration and fear bubbling over into your voice. "What’s with the attitude? What did I do to you? I'm asking for help!"

He finally looked up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t friendly. It was mocking.

"What did you do? Nothing. That’s the problem. Linkon folk come down here thinking they’re better than everyone, tossing around their fancy gold and expecting the world to hand them everything." He shook his head, his expression a mix of amusement and contempt.

"You want help? Then you’d better figure out how things work around here real fast, princess. No one's gonna hand you anything for free."

You felt your fists clench at his words, the anger mixing with a deeper sense of helplessness. You hadn’t asked to be here. You hadn’t asked for any of this. And yet, standing in this grimy corner store in the depths of the N109 Zone, it was clear that no one cared about your suffering. Not here. You weren’t in Linkon anymore.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to calm down, swallowing the anger rising in your throat. Getting into a fight with this clerk wouldn’t help you, not now. But the bitterness of his words lingered, and you realized just how alone you truly were in this place.

Silently, you turned your back to the greasy man behind the counter, his words still echoing in your mind as you began to walk up and down the aisles. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of hunger, thirst, and sheer exhaustion pulling at you. Your stomach growled, gnawing at your insides, reminding you just how long it had been since you'd eaten.

But something else gnawed at you too—something that made your skin crawl with discomfort. You hadn't changed your pad for hours, and now the sticky, damp feeling clung uncomfortably between your legs. The sudden realization hit you, a wave of disgust washing over you as you winced.

Swallowing hard, you glanced over toward the feminine hygiene aisle. Rows of necessities lined the shelves—pads, tampons, basic supplies—just out of reach. You stared at them, your stomach twisting in knots. It wasn't just food you needed now. You couldn’t go on like this.

But you had no credit cards. No way to purchase anything. Nothing.

Your eyes flicked back toward the front of the store, where the disinterested clerk sat, still engrossed in his phone. He wasn’t paying attention to you. He didn’t care. Nobody here did.

You felt a knot tighten in your throat as the harsh reality of the situation settled in. You had to steal. There was no other choice. You hated the thought of it—hated how low it made you feel—but survival wasn’t a matter of pride. Not here. Not now.

Your fingers trembled as you looked back at the shelves. You knew what you had to do.

The clerk still wasn’t paying attention, his face lit by the glow of his phone. His indifference might be your only saving grace. You could do this—quickly, quietly, and then you’d be gone.

With shaky hands you reach for a plastic bag that had fallen on the ground. The bag felt like a shield, something to hide the weight of what you were about to do. You didn’t think twice as you moved toward the feminine hygiene aisle, knowing you couldn’t walk any further in your current state. You reached for a pack of pads, your movements slow and deliberate. Your heart pounded in your chest, loud enough that it felt like the entire store could hear it.

Next, you hurried down the snack aisle, grabbing a few protein bars, a small bag of chips, and a bottle of water, all of which disappeared into the bag as your pulse raced in your ears.

You glanced toward the counter, your body tense with anxiety. The clerk still hadn’t looked up, completely absorbed in his phone. The faint, unmistakable sound of pornography drifted from his speakers, making your stomach churn in disgust. You twisted your face, feeling a wave of revulsion wash over you, but you couldn’t afford to stop now.

He was utterly oblivious to your frantic movements, his attention locked on the screen, but that didn't ease the gnawing sensation in your gut. Every step felt like you were tiptoeing across a minefield, a ticking clock counting down to disaster. Even though he wasn’t watching, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was.

With the bag now heavy in your hands, you made your way toward the exit, each step carefully measured, your breath shallow as you fought to keep calm. The distance between you and the door seemed endless, as if every inch stretched into miles. But finally, your trembling hand closed around the cold metal of the handle.

Your heart raced as you crossed the threshold, bracing yourself for the inevitable—a shrill, deafening alarm that would shatter the silence and expose your crime to the world. You waited for it, your breath caught in your throat, ready to bolt at the first sound.

But nothing came.

No alarm. No piercing siren. The only thing you could hear was the frantic beating of your own heart as the door swung shut behind you with a quiet click.

For a moment, you stood there, frozen in place, not daring to move. The cool night air brushed against your skin, grounding you in the eerie quiet. The world outside the store felt impossibly still. It took a few seconds for your brain to register that you had made it out—unseen, unheard.

You swallowed hard, keeping your head down as you hurried past the few patrons lingering near the store. Their eyes followed your every step, and you could feel their gazes crawling over you, judging, curious. Did they happen to care, or did you just look that insane?

The woman with the child pulled her daughter closer as you passed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. The man smoking his cigar gave you a long, leering stare, as if trying to figure out what your story was. The others whispered quietly among themselves, but you couldn’t make out the words, nor did you want to. You kept walking, willing yourself to be invisible, but the tension in the air made your skin prickle.

Once you were a safe distance away from the store, you ducked down an empty alley, the shadows wrapping around you like a cloak. The world outside was still bleak, the flickering streetlights casting only the faintest glow, but here in the quiet, you finally had a moment to breathe.

You found a relatively clean spot, tucked behind an old dumpster, and set the bag down beside you. Your hands shook as you reached into the bag for the pack of pads. The discomfort and itch between your legs had grown unbearable, and the relief of changing, even in such a grim place, was something you couldn't put off any longer.

Quickly, you adjusted yourself, wincing at the feeling of the old pad peeling away. You worked fast, knowing you couldn’t linger here for long. Once you were done, you felt a small sense of relief—at least one problem had been solved.

Next, you pulled out the snacks. The hunger was still clawing at you, and the sight of the protein bars and chips made your stomach ache even more. Tearing into a protein bar, you ate quickly, barely tasting the food as you devoured it, desperate to fuel your exhausted body. The bottle of water came next, and you drank it down in large, gulping swallows.

For the first time since you had escaped, you felt a flicker of calm. It wasn’t much, and it wouldn’t last, but here in this dark corner, with food in your stomach and a small bit of comfort, you allowed yourself a brief moment to breathe.

But the quiet didn’t last. You knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. You had to get moving at some point or Sylus would find you. This place was unforgiving, and survival demanded more than just temporary refuge.

Tucking the remaining items back into the bag, you sigh in satisfaction, glancing around to make sure no one had followed you. The streets were still empty. For now, you were alone. You had survived one more step in this nightmare, but you knew it wasn’t over yet.

Some time passes and you can slowly feel yourself falling asleep against the dumpster.

As you crouched in the dim alley, trying to fight off exhaustion and gather your thoughts, the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Slow, steady, and casual, accompanied by a faint, off-key whistling. You stiffened, instinctively pulling the bag closer to your chest.

The footsteps stopped just a few feet away, and then came the voice—low, cautious, but curious.

"Hey, you okay?"

You glanced up warily, your eyes landing on the figure standing at the mouth of the alley. He was tall, maybe in his mid-thirties, with shaggy, unkempt brown hair that fell just above his eyes. His clothes were worn—faded jeans and a jacket that had seen better days—but he didn’t look like the rough types you usually imagined when you thought of the N109 Zone. His posture was relaxed, hands tucked casually into his pockets, but his sharp, dark eyes were fixed on you, a flicker of concern—or maybe something else—dancing behind them.

His face was hard to read. He had a slight stubble covering his jaw, giving him a rugged, almost tired appearance. His lips quirked in what might’ve been a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at you—like he was curious, but also sizing you up. Not in an aggressive way, but in a way that made you wonder why he’d stopped to talk to you at all.

"Are you... lost?" he asked, stepping forward slowly, the whistling tune dying in the air. His voice was softer now, almost as if he was trying to be gentle, but his presence made the space around you feel even smaller.

"What happened to your arm?"

You swallowed hard, trying your best to keep your gaze on him. You had honestly completely forgotten about the scar on you arm. As much as you wanted to explain, every instinct screamed to stay wary. This wasn’t a place where strangers helped out of kindness, and you knew better than to trust easily. But as exhausted and desperate as you were, you weren’t sure if you could afford to push away help, even from someone who might have their own agenda.

"I—I need help," you stammered, your voice shaky, barely managing to push the words past your tightening throat. Your body trembled, a mix of nerves and exhaustion leaving you on edge. You hugged the bag tighter to your chest, every muscle in your body tense. "But... don't come any closer just yet."

The man's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression shifting, though he made no move forward. He stayed where he was, his hands still in his pockets, the dim streetlight casting long shadows on his face. For a moment, there was silence, the air thick with tension as he watched you.

"Okay," he said finally, his voice calm and even, though the curiosity in his eyes never wavered. He tilted his head, taking in your ragged appearance with a deeper interest. "No problem. I’m not here to scare you. Just trying to figure out what you're doing out here all alone."

You bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. You needed help, but trust was a dangerous thing in a place like this. Still, you were running out of options. Your mind raced as you tried to decide what to say next.

You hesitated, your mind racing as you weighed the risks. Could you trust him? Telling the truth might make you vulnerable, but lying wouldn’t get you far either. You had to say something—anything—to explain why you were here.

"I was kidnapped," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Your voice wavered, a tremor of fear running through you as you spoke. "I escaped… I don’t know where I am. I just need to get somewhere safe and rest so I can get home later."

The man’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He studied you, eyes narrowing as if trying to assess whether or not you were telling the truth. His silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, making your heart pound faster in your chest.

"You’re serious?" he finally asked, his tone more subdued now, almost disbelieving but not dismissive. He took a small step back, showing that he wasn’t going to invade your space. "You really got away from someone?"

You nodded, the tension in your body still coiled tight, waiting for his reaction. You couldn't tell if he believed you, but you hoped—desperately—that he wouldn’t press too hard or turn you away.

The man stared at you for a moment longer, his eyes scanning your face, as if trying to read the truth in your expression. Finally, he let out a slow breath, his posture softening just slightly.

"Alright," he said, his voice low but firm. "If you're telling the truth... then you’ve got bigger problems than just being lost."

He glanced around, checking the street behind him as if making sure no one else was nearby, then he looked back at you, his face more serious now. "You can’t stay out here. This place— the N109 Zone—it’s not somewhere you want to be wandering around alone, especially if someone’s looking for you."

You felt a shiver run down your spine. You already knew the N109 Zone was dangerous, but hearing it from him made it feel even more real.

"Look," he continued, his voice softening. "I’m not gonna hurt you. If you need help, I can take you somewhere safer. But you’ve gotta trust me, and you’ve gotta move quick. If they’re after you, it’s only a matter of time before they find you out here."

He waited, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to see if you’d accept his offer—or run.

You hesitated for a long moment, scanning the man’s face for any sign of deceit. His expression was calm, almost unnervingly so, but something about his demeanor made you feel that, for now, you didn’t have much of a choice. If he meant harm, he could’ve acted already. Swallowing hard, you nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “I’ll come with you.”

He nodded in return, offering nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgment before turning and motioning for you to follow. "My place isn’t far. You can rest there, maybe clean up a bit. It’ll give you a few hours before you have to figure out what’s next."

You fell in step behind him, your bare feet quiet against the cracked pavement. The streets were eerily silent, save for the occasional distant hum of passing cars. You hugged the bag closer to your chest, still tense but too tired to think about running. As you walked through the dim streets, a question lingered in the back of your mind.

"I'm surprised you stopped to help me," you finally said, your voice tentative. "Most people here…they wouldn’t have even looked twice."

He glanced back at you, barely breaking stride, and shrugged. "I’ve seen worse things in this place. Trust me, a girl lost in an alley isn't the strangest thing I’ve come across." His tone was casual, almost detached, as if this was just another day in the chaotic world of the N109 Zone.

His nonchalance unnerved you. Why was he so calm? Your anxiety spiked for a moment, thoughts racing. Maybe you had made the wrong choice. Maybe he had his own agenda, like everyone else in this place. But then again, he hadn’t tried to harm you. If he wanted to, he would've done so. You weighed your options, feeling the tug of paranoia, but exhaustion and desperation had their hold. You pushed the doubt aside. For now, you decided to trust him, even if only for a few hours.

As you walked in silence, the two of you eventually came across something you hadn’t expected to see: an old, grimy phone booth, its glass cracked but still intact, standing at the edge of a corner. A relic from another time, long since forgotten by most.

Your heart skipped a beat. A phone. You might be able to call Xavier.

"Do you have any… uh, quarters?" you asked, your voice tight with desperation. You hadn’t thought about it before, but now it seemed obvious. Linkon City had long left behind the need for such old currency—everything there was digital, clean, modern. But here, in the N109 Zone, where everything felt stuck in time, of course they still used quarters. It made sense in this broken-down world.

He stopped, watching you for a moment before sighing. "Yeah, hang on." He fumbled in his pockets for a few seconds, fishing around with a slight look of annoyance. After a bit of clattering, he pulled out a few quarters, handing them over to you without a word.

Your hands trembled as you took them. This could be your chance—your lifeline. You stepped inside the booth, hoping that the old machine would still work, and stared at the dirty receiver.

You stared at the old rotary dial for a moment, panic rising in your chest. You tried to remember how it worked as you slipped the coins in the slot. It had been so long since you’d read about one of these—everything in Linkon was sleek, touch-based, connected by the web. But here, in this forgotten part of the world, you were holding a piece of the past. The process felt foreign, archaic.

Your mind raced, desperately trying to recall Xavier’s number. What was it? You racked your brain, images of his scribbled phone number from messages, fragments of conversations, all blurred together. The numbers danced in your head as you tried to piece them together.

Your heart pounded louder, matching the beat of the seconds slipping away. You were running out of time. With a trembling hand, you began dialing the numbers, trying to focus on every movement, praying you’d gotten it right.

The dial clicked as it spun back after each number, the mechanical sound unnervingly slow. The receiver crackled in your ear as the phone began to ring.

Please, Xavier... please pick up.

The ringing felt endless, each second a heavier weight pressing on your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the receiver tight. The noise around you seemed to fade into the background as you waited, hoping, praying that on the other end of the line, he’d be there—ready to hear you, ready to help.

The phone rang again... and again.

Your breath caught in your throat, a prayer hanging on the edge of each ring.

"Hello?" A timid, cautious male voice came through the receiver, muffled by the crackling static, but it was unmistakable.

Relief crashed over you like a wave, and you nearly collapsed right there in the grimy phone booth, your knees buckling as the sound of Xavier's voice reached your ears. After everything—you finally had a connection to him. Tears welled up in your eyes, your breath shaky as you clutched the receiver tighter.

"Xavier!! Xavier, thank god!" you cried, your voice raw with desperation. "I don't even know where to start..."

But after your outburst, only silence greeted you. The line crackled, sputtering with age, the static drowning out whatever response might have come. Frustration surged through you as you gripped the receiver, shaking it in a vain attempt to clear the line. You banged the phone against the booth, biting back a sob as the interference persisted. This thing must be older than you thought. How could it fail you now?

Finally, the crackling stopped, leaving only a tense, quiet hum on the other end.

"Xavier? Is that you??" you asked, your voice trembling, barely holding back the panic. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing this fragile connection—this one thin lifeline.

The line crackled for a moment before Xavier’s voice came through, steady and calm, but with a layer of unmistakable relief.

"It’s you…," Xavier said, his voice soft but firm, as if he’d been holding onto hope for so long that hearing your voice felt like a lifeline. "I’m so glad you’re alive. Are you okay? Where are you?"

The sound of his voice sent another wave of emotion crashing over you. You sob, your body trembling with a mix of exhaustion and relief. For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t alone. He had been looking for you, and now, he was coming.

"Xavier…I was kidnapped," you sobbed, the words finally breaking free, the fear and terror of the last few days pouring out. "I escaped. I’m cold, hurt and scared..."

His response was immediate, his tone both calming and steady, as if he was trying to comfort you even from miles away. "I’m here now. I’ve got you. Just breathe, okay? I’m coming for you. I just need a better idea of where you are."

You took a shaky breath, trying to keep it together, but the tears threatened to spill over. "I don’t know where exactly… all I know is I’m in the N109 Zone. I found a phone booth near a corner store. Everything around here looks abandoned."

There was a brief pause on the other end as Xavier processed the information. "Alright," he said firmly. "Stay there, I'll try and track the location of the phone booth. I’m on my way. Just… hold on a little longer, okay?"

"I—" you hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the man who had helped you. "I actually found a really nice man. He’s letting me rest at his place. He hasn’t hurt me at all, so don’t worry. He says his place isn’t far from here. I’ll come back to the phone and give you the details after I see it."

Xavier’s voice tightened slightly, the concern clear. "I don’t like the sound of that. Just… be careful. I’m coming as fast as I can. Don’t take any unnecessary risks, alright? If anything feels wrong, leave. Fight like hell if you need to."

"I will," you whispered, gripping the receiver tightly. "Just hurry, please."

"I promise I’m coming," Xavier said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. He paused, just for a second, before continuing. "One more thing though—do you remember who took you? I’ll need a name, in case…in case I don't find you when I arrive. I don’t want to lose you again."

Your heart raced as memories of your captor flashed in your mind. "Yeah! His name is S—"

"Your time is up. Please enter more quarters for an additional 3 minutes," the automated voice cut in sharply, drowning out your words.

Panic surged through you. The call had abruptly ended, the receiver in your hand now silent except for the monotonous prompt asking for more coins. You frantically searched your pockets, but you had no more quarters.

"Your time is up. Please enter more quarters for—"

You screamed, the frustration boiling over as you kicked the phone, the clanging metal reverberating through the phone booth. Your hand gripped the receiver so tightly your knuckles lost circulation, and with a final surge of anger, you thrashed against the booth, the tears you’d been holding back now streaming down your face.

"Xavier!?" you yelled into the dead line, your voice cracking with desperation. He had to hear you. He had to. But all that came through was the cold, indifferent tone of the automated voice, endlessly repeating its demand for more quarters, as if mocking your panic.

You slammed the receiver down, the booth suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating. Every second that ticked by was a second lost, a moment Xavier might not know who had taken you, might not know how to find you.

With a deep, shaky breath, you stepped out of the booth, blinking away the tears.

"Do...you have any more quarters?" you ask, more tears threatening to spill from your face at any moment now.

The man outside the phone booth shifted awkwardly and shook his head, his eyes flickering between you and the dark street. He had watched you from the moment you’d rushed into the booth, but now, as you sobbed, his discomfort was clear. He took a slow step forward, clearing his throat, but didn’t say anything at first, unsure of what to do.

"You, uh... you okay?" he asked finally, his voice soft but uneasy. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing around as if he wasn’t used to being in such an emotional situation.

You wiped at your eyes, trying to calm your breathing, but the tears kept coming. The overwhelming frustration of losing the connection with Xavier left you feeling exposed and helpless. You didn’t know what to say to the man, couldn’t find the words to explain the weight of everything crashing down on you at once.

He hesitated, then sighed, taking another step closer. "Look, uh… if it’s about the call, I’m sure your guy’s coming. Sounds like he cares. You just... you know, gotta hang in there. We’ll get to my place soon, and you can rest."

His words, though clumsy, were an attempt at comfort. But even as he tried to reassure you, his uncertainty showed in the way he avoided your gaze, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to handle someone breaking down in front of him.

You sniffed, nodding slightly, feeling drained from the outburst. "Yeah… yeah, I’ll be fine," you muttered, wiping your face with the sleeve of your nightgown, though you weren’t sure you believed it.

The two of you resumed walking, your steps slow and heavy as you sniffled, trying to hold back the tears that still threatened to spill. The man walked beside you, his hands shoved into his pockets, glancing at you now and then with an awkwardness that was hard to miss. He wasn’t saying much, just occasionally looking around as if he wished there was something more he could do, but he seemed completely out of his depth when it came to comforting anyone, let alone a woman on the verge of breaking down.

"You’ll, uh, feel better once we get there," he mumbled, his voice low and sheepish. "It’s not much, but at least you can get some sleep. Maybe eat something."

You nodded, biting your lip as you fought to compose yourself, trying not to let your emotions overwhelm you again. The air between you felt thick, filled with unspoken words and awkward tension. He kept glancing at you as if he wanted to say something more, but each time, he swallowed the words, guiding you quietly through the darkened streets.

The city around you was eerily quiet, the desolation of the N109 Zone even more pronounced in the silence. The flickering streetlights barely illuminated your path, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked pavement. You hugged your arms close to your body, your mind still reeling from the failed call, but you focused on just putting one foot in front of the other.

The man cleared his throat, his voice hesitant. "I’m… not really good at this kind of thing, you know," he admitted, his tone awkward, almost apologetic. "But you’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it."

You nodded again, not trusting yourself to speak. His words were clumsy, but there was a strange sincerity in them. Despite his unease, it seemed like he really was trying to help, even if he didn’t quite know how to do it.

As the silence stretched on, the weight of everything hanging between you, you glanced at him through the dim light. His awkwardness, his uncertainty—it was all so clear. But despite everything, he had helped you. He had taken you in when you had nowhere else to go. Given you the last of his quarters. You swallowed, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

"I didn’t catch your name, by the way," you said softly, your voice still a little shaky.

He blinked, as if surprised you’d asked. His steps slowed for a moment before he gave a small, awkward shrug. "Oh, uh, yeah. I guess I didn’t say." He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground as he seemed to search for the right words. "It’s Reese," he finally muttered. "Not much of a name, but it’s mine."

You offered a small, tired smile, your voice soft. "Reese… thanks for helping me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You stopped yourself, the weight of your situation pressing on your chest again.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye and gave a sheepish nod. "Yeah, well… I’m no hero. Just didn’t seem right to leave you out there. Not in a place like this."

As the two of you walked in silence, Reese cleared his throat, glancing over at you with a bit more confidence than before. "So… what’s your name? Figured if we’re gonna be walking together, I should know who I’m helping."

You hesitated, your heart racing slightly. Trust wasn’t something you could afford so easily, not here, not now. Despite his awkward attempts to help, you weren’t ready to give him your real name. Better to be cautious, you reminded yourself. You forced a small smile, trying to keep your voice steady.

"It’s...Mephisto," you said, the lie rolling off your tongue before you could second-guess it. You had vaguely remembered Sylus calling out the name to someone from outside the door, to who you weren't sure. One of his men probably.

Reese nodded, seemingly taking your answer at face value, no suspicion in his expression. "Alright," he said, giving a half-smile. "Nice to meet you Miss Mephisto, despite the strange name."

You nodded back, feeling the weight of the lie settle inside you. It wasn’t much, but it gave you a small layer of protection—just in case. You still didn’t know Reese’s full intentions, and trust here could be a dangerous thing.

"Nice to meet you too, Reese," you replied softly, glancing around the darkened street.

After what felt like an eternity of walking through the dark, desolate streets of the N109 Zone, you and Reese finally reached his place. The house stood at the end of a narrow alley, tucked between two crumbling, abandoned buildings. It wasn’t much to look at—dingy, with peeling paint and windows that seemed to have long lost their clarity. The front door sagged slightly on its hinges, the wood scuffed and weathered, as if it had seen better days a long time ago.

Reese unlocked the door with a bit of effort, pushing it open with a low creak. Inside, the air was stale but warm, a stark contrast to the cold outside. The place was small, cluttered, and dimly lit by a single overhead bulb. The furnishings were old, mismatched, and worn—a threadbare couch sat in the corner, covered in a faded blanket. The walls were bare except for a few crooked picture frames, and the carpet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Still, despite its grimy appearance, there was a strange sense of comfort to the place, like someone had lived here for a long time and had made it home in their own way.

"You can sit over there if you want," Reese said, motioning to the couch. "It’s not much, but it’s better than the streets."

You nodded, stepping inside cautiously. Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the details—the scuffed coffee table with a few empty bottles on it, the stack of old magazines piled up against one wall. It didn’t scream danger, but you couldn’t shake the wary feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Something about the whole situation made you uneasy. Maybe it was the dim lighting, the smell of old dust, or just the lingering doubt about trusting someone so easily in a place like this.

Still, exhaustion weighed heavily on your body, and the promise of rest—any rest—was too tempting to ignore. You sat down on the couch, the worn cushions sinking under you, and pulled the bag of pads closer to your chest. Reese seemed harmless enough, but you reminded yourself to stay on guard. You weren’t out of danger yet.

Reese busied himself, tossing a few items around to clear space, but the house remained eerily quiet.

As you settled into the couch, trying to make yourself as comfortable as possible, a sudden noise from the backyard broke the uneasy silence. It was faint, but distinct—a thud, followed by the faint sound of something shuffling or dragging. Your heart leapt, and you sat up a little straighter, your eyes darting toward the back of the house.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice tense as you turned to look at Reese.

He froze for a split second, the calm, awkward demeanor you’d come to expect from him faltering. His eyes widened slightly, and he gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, that?" he said, his voice higher than usual. "It’s just… my dog. Yeah, he’s in the shed out back. I forgot to mention him earlier."

You watched him closely, feeling the tension spike in the room. There was something off about the way he said it, the quickness in his tone as if he were scrambling to come up with an explanation.

"Your dog?" you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady, though doubt gnawed at the back of your mind.

"Yeah," he said, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. "He’s old, doesn’t like people much, so I keep him out there. No big deal."

His words didn’t do much to settle your nerves. You stared at him for a moment longer, weighing his response, trying to decide if he was telling the truth. The uneasy feeling from earlier returned, stronger this time, creeping up your spine.

"Right," you muttered, still watching him carefully, but you decided not to push further. Not yet.

"Um... coffee?" Reese blurted out suddenly, his voice still laced with that nervous edge. He offered a forced smile, clearly trying to redirect the tension hanging thick in the air. He rubbed his hands together, glancing toward the small, cluttered kitchen. "I could make us some. Might help, you know, after everything you’ve been through."

You hesitated, still on edge from the strange noise outside and his quick, jittery explanation. Something didn’t feel right, but you weren’t sure if pushing him now would help or only make things worse. You forced a smile of your own, your mind still racing with questions.

"Sure," you said quietly, your voice flat as you tried to calm your nerves. "Coffee sounds good."

Reese nodded, too eagerly, and moved toward the kitchen, fumbling with an old coffee pot. The clattering of cups and the rush of water filled the silence, but your mind was still focused on that noise outside. A dog in the shed? It seemed like a weak excuse, but you didn’t know him well enough to push it.

You leaned back into the couch, the worn fabric sinking beneath you as your eyes drifted toward the back door. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that maybe Reese wasn’t telling you everything. You forced yourself to take a deep breath, trying to keep calm. You were exhausted, but you couldn't let your guard down.

Reese finished brewing the coffee after a few moments, bringing it over to you in a green, cracked mug. You took it from him with a polite smile, setting it down on the coffee table untouched. The steam curled up from the cup, filling the small room with the faint scent of stale coffee. Reese sat across from you, sipping from his own mug, but you couldn’t help but notice how distracted he seemed.

He kept glancing toward the window, then back at his watch, over and over. Each time, his face tensed a little more, as though he were expecting something—or someone. Your wariness only grew.

What is he looking for?

The air felt thick with unspoken tension, and your mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the noise in the backyard wasn’t as innocent as he’d made it sound.

"So…uh, what’s your dog’s name?" you asked, trying to keep up the conversation and maybe get him to reveal more. Your voice was casual, but inside, your nerves were on high alert.

"Dog? What dog?" Reese said absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to the window. His response was automatic, dismissive, as if he hadn’t even registered the question.

"You...said that noise earlier was your dog? Right?"

A few moments passed in uncomfortable silence, and then you saw it—realization hit him like a brick. His eyes widened as he turned to look at you, panic flickering across his face.

You sat up straighter, your heart starting to race. He’d lied. And now he knew you knew.

"Uh, I mean—" he stammered, his voice shaky, "I meant, uh, Rex. Yeah, his name’s Rex. Sorry, I’m just… distracted." He forced a weak smile, but the panic was still there, clear as day. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

You shifted uncomfortably, the tension in the room thickening with every second that passed after Reese's panicked slip. His eyes kept darting between you and the window, as if something outside demanded his attention. Your pulse quickened as the uneasy feeling deepened. Something wasn’t right, and you knew you had to get out of there.

"I should…go," you said, forcing a smile as you slowly stood up, trying to keep your voice casual. "Y'know... Xavier’s probably found the phone booth by now. I should go back and meet him."

Reese blinked, his expression tightening for a split second. The forced calm he'd been trying to maintain wavered as he set his mug down on the table a little too quickly, the clink of the ceramic against wood echoing in the silence. "Go? Already?" He scratched the back of his neck again, his voice strained. "I mean, it’s cold, and it’s not safe out there… Maybe you should wait a little longer."

You swallowed hard, feeling the anxiety rising in your chest. Every instinct told you to get out, but you had to keep your cool. "Thanks for the coffee and everything, but I don’t want Xavier to worry," you replied, taking a step toward the door. "I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse, remember?"

Reese stood up as well, his movements stiff, like he was trying to decide whether to stop you. His gaze flickered toward the window again, and his voice dropped. "Yeah, I get it. But, uh… maybe just a few more minutes. You don’t want to be out there alone, do you?"

You glanced toward the door, your heart pounding in your chest. The unease that had been lurking beneath the surface now felt like a solid weight pressing down on you. Something was very wrong, and you needed to leave—now.

"No, I’m leaving. Thank you for everything, but I need to go," you said, your voice steady despite the panic bubbling under the surface. You tried to move past Reese, your eyes focused on the door, your heart pounding with the hope of reaching it before things got worse.

But then Reese stepped in front of you, his whole demeanor changing in an instant. "No," he said flatly, his voice suddenly devoid of the awkwardness and sheepishness he’d shown before. His tone was cold, almost emotionless, as he closed the distance between you with startling speed.

Before you could react, you felt it—the cold press of metal against your neck. Your breath caught in your throat, and your body froze as the unmistakable sensation of a gun pressed hard into your skin.

"You're not going anywhere," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. His earlier nervousness was completely gone, replaced by something dark and dangerous. "Sit back down."

Your heart raced, your mind scrambling for a way out, but all you could feel was the sharp edge of fear coursing through you. You swallowed hard, trying not to move too quickly, knowing that with one wrong step, things could spiral even further out of control.

"Reese… please," you whispered, barely able to keep your voice from shaking. "You don’t have to do this."

His eyes flickered with something—anger, desperation—but his grip on the gun didn’t waver. "Just sit down, and no one has to get hurt."

Your mind raced, searching for a way out, but for now, all you could do was comply and hope that Xavier was still coming for you.

"I promised them a girl..." Reese muttered, his voice trembling slightly, though the gun still pressed firmly against your neck as you looked up at him from the couch. He glanced away from you, his guilt briefly flickering in his eyes. "Then you just... happened to be there. Right place, wrong time, I guess. So...this is how it has to be."

His words hung in the air, cold and final.

"I’m sorry," he added, though there was no comfort in his apology—just a hollow attempt at easing his own conscience.

Your breath hitched as you tried to process his words, the full weight of the situation crushing down on you. He wasn’t just some awkward guy helping you out of kindness. He had been waiting for someone—anyone—to fill a promise. And you had walked right into it.

As you stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, the cold barrel of the gun pressed against your neck, the door creaked open. Another man stepped into the room. He was taller than Reese, with a thick, rough appearance—his face shadowed by the dim light. His eyes swept the room, landing on you, taking in the situation with a detached indifference.

"Is this the girl you promised?" the man asked, his voice low and gruff, as if he’d been through this kind of scene too many times to be surprised by it. His gaze shifted briefly to Reese, then back to you, narrowing with interest.

You felt a chill run down your spine as his question hung in the air.

Reese didn’t move the gun from your neck, but you could feel the tension in his body shift as he glanced over at the man, clearly nervous about his arrival. "Yeah, this is her," Reese replied, his voice tight. "I just… need a few more minutes to get her to cooperate."

The other man stepped closer, his boots heavy on the floor. His eyes raked over you, cold and calculating. "No time for that," he said flatly. "Get her in the basement. You know how this works, Reese."

Your pulse quickened, fear gripping you tighter as you looked from one man to the other, your mind spinning with panic. What were they planning? You needed to find a way out, and fast, before things escalated even further.

"You’re making a mistake," you said, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to stay calm. "Someone’s coming for me. If you don’t let me go, it’s going to get a lot worse for both of you."

As the weight of your words hung in the air, you weren’t even sure who you were referring to in that moment—Sylus, the man who had kidnapped you in the first place, or Xavier, the one coming to save you. Both names were tangled up in your desperation, your mind too frantic to distinguish between them. All you could do was hope that the threat would ring true, that it would be enough to make Reese think twice.

The taller man smirked, clearly unimpressed. "We’ll see about that," he muttered, turning his back toward the door to pull up the carpet, leaving you alone with Reese and the gun still pressed to your neck. You watch as a metal trap door with a handle is revealed to have been hidden under the carpet and you gasp.

Instinct kicked in, and without thinking, you twisted suddenly, using the brief distraction in Reese’s hesitation to try and break free. You shoved his arm away with everything you had, knocking the gun off balance. For a moment, you thought you had a chance, adrenaline flooding your body as you fought with all the strength you could muster.

"Let go of me!" you screamed, thrashing and kicking as hard as you could. Your elbow connected with Reese's side, and he let out a sharp grunt, but his grip tightened. His face twisted in a mixture of frustration and fear, and he fought back, grabbing your arm and wrenching you toward him.

"Stop it!" Reese growled, struggling to maintain control, but you weren’t going down without a fight. You kicked at his legs, but his hold on you only grew stronger.

The door to the basement creaked open, and before you could react, the taller man reappeared, grabbing you by the other arm. His grip was like iron, and between the two of them, they overpowered you. Your heart pounded as you screamed and clawed, your feet scraping against the floor, but the force of their combined strength was too much.

"No! Please—" you gasped, trying to twist free, but they dragged you toward the open door.

The tall man grunted with effort as they forced you toward the dark, looming stairwell. "Get her down there already," he growled, his tone sharp and impatient.

You struggled even harder, but your muscles were weakening, the adrenaline starting to fade as fear took over. They shoved you roughly down the narrow staircase, and you stumbled, catching yourself against the damp wall. The dimness of the basement swallowed you whole, the air cold and musty. You could feel the fear wrapping around you, tighter with each step they forced you to take.

The taller man was close behind, his heavy footsteps echoing in the cold, damp basement. You felt his rough hand grab the bottom of your nightgown, his fingers curling into the fabric. Panic surged through you as his cold hand snaked across your belly, the touch sending a shiver of disgust up your spine.

You screamed, thrashing wildly against his grip, but his strength overpowered you. The man leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "Wouldn't hurt to try her out before the boss gets here..." His voice was thick with lust, and his eyes gleamed with a hunger that turned your stomach.

His hand slid lower, his fingers beginning to snake inside your underwear. You could feel his hard on pressed against your backside. Fear and revulsion took over, and you knew you had to do something—anything—to stop him.

Thinking fast, you blurted out the first thing that came to your mind, your voice desperate and shaking. "I'm bleeding! I'm on my period!"

The words seemed to stop him in his tracks. His hand paused, the twisted hunger in his eyes faltering for a moment as confusion flickered across his face.

"You’re what?" he muttered, his brow furrowing. His grip loosened just slightly, enough for you to take a sharp breath, your heart still racing.

"I’m on my period," you repeated, your voice trembling. "It’s—it’s bad. You don’t want to do this right now."

For a brief second, his disgusted expression told you that he was weighing his options. The thought of period blood clearly repulsed him, and his hand slowly pulled away from your underwear, his lips curling in frustration.

"You’re lucky," he growled, wiping his hand on his pants, his face twisted with disdain. "But don’t think that saves you."

His hand shot up before you could react, grabbing a fistful of your hair and dragging you across the rough concrete floor toward the makeshift shower installed in the corner of the basement. Your scalp throbbed with each pull, the pain sharpening with every step, but you bit your lip, refusing to cry out.

He threw you against the cold, damp wall, the chill seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown. You barely had time to catch your breath before he twisted the rusty shower handle. Water burst from the nozzle, freezing and unforgiving.

“So filthy,” he sneered, standing over you as the icy water soaked your clothes, plastering them to your skin. “Maybe this will help?"

The cold bit into your bones, and you hugged yourself, trembling, struggling to stay upright as the water pounded down. He stood there a moment longer, watching with twisted satisfaction, before finally turning away, leaving you shivering on the cold, wet floor of the basement.

Sobbing on the cold, unforgiving basement floor, you shiver, your body pressed against the damp concrete, each breath heavy with despair. The chill seeps into your skin, a numbing cold that echoes the hollow ache inside you. Your tears fall, silent and unnoticed, merging with the grime beneath you as exhaustion pulls you deeper into its grip. In the silence, a desperate wish slips through your mind for someone to save you—anyone, even him.

Though Sylus had stolen you away, his presence now haunts you like a ghost. In this unbearable solitude, even the memory of him feels like a twisted solace. You long for his shadow, for those red, gleaming eyes that once pierced through the darkness, and his stark white hair, a glimmer against the void.

At least he gave you warm baths.

The thought slips through your mind, shame twisting in your chest. How could you even think of Sylus now, when poor Xavier was likely out there, rushing to save you, unaware of the torment you’re enduring? Guilt coils around you, tightening with every heartbeat, yet you can’t shake the cruel comfort of that memory. Sylus, for all the wrong he had done, had never left you to freeze, never left you to shiver and break alone.

Your vision blurs as the weight of everything crushes you, and you can almost see him—an apparition of salvation in your mind. His image flickers, vivid and sharp, as your consciousness begins to fray at the edges. The world slips away, piece by piece, and the cold wraps tighter around you.

The cold water finally stops.

In this fading moment, you cling to that impossible hope, that he, with his red eyes and cold hands, might come for you—if only to save you from a fate worse than death.

[huxhsz]

🍎 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ikaw lang

— synopsis: caleb is back, but he's different. he looks the same, talks the same—but something about him feels just out of reach, like a melody you can’t quite remember. the boy who used to piggyback you home, who cut apples for you without complaint, who always found a way to annoy and protect you in equal measure—he's not here anymore. and yet, as you watch him silently peel an apple, his hands steady and sure, you realize something. you still want him. even if he’s changed. even if he's not the same. because no matter what, he’s never leaving you again.

— note/s: first post on tumblr im a bit intimidated HAHA wrote this while listening to ikaw lang by nobita and also realized i NEED filo caleb. save me filo caleb save me I NEED TO WRITE A FILO COLLEGE/HS AU OF HIM SO BAD

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

caleb has changed, you realize grimly.

he sounds the same, looks the same, talks the same—

but he's not your caleb.

he's not the same caleb who used to piggyback you home after school, he's not the same caleb who would use you as his fake girlfriend to ward off his fangirls, he's not the same caleb who would slice apples for you because you would always complain about being lazy... no.

when you look at this man's—this stranger's—face, you do not see your caleb. you see fleet colonel caleb of the farspace fleet, you see a soldier hardened by war, a man who has seen too much and lost even more.

"—pipsqueak? pipsqueakk— earth to pipsqueak? oh, there she is! hello, what has gotten you so out of it? you're staring, y'know."

caleb raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the kitchen counter like he belongs there. like this is normal. like you haven’t been standing here, silently cataloging every little thing that’s different about him.

"am i?" you blink, tilting your head, feigning ignorance. "you sure it’s not you just being self-conscious?"

"as if," he scoffs, and there—there it is. a glimpse of him, of the boy you knew, the boy who used to flick your forehead whenever you got too smug.

but then it’s gone, swallowed up by something older, something colder.

his fingers tap against the counter, a steady rhythm. you used to recognize all his nervous habits. the way he’d scratch the back of his neck when lying, the way his nose scrunched when he was about to say something stupid. this? this tapping? you don’t know this one.

"well?" he prompts. "you gonna tell me why you’re looking at me like i grew a second head?"

"you’d be lucky if that happened. then you’d have twice the brain cells," you retort automatically. safe. easy. the kind of banter you used to have.

it works. he rolls his eyes, lips twitching like he wants to smirk. "real original. you workshopping that one while zoning out?"

you shrug, moving to the fridge. "maybe."

his eyes follow you. you feel them, just like you feel the weight of his presence in this space that suddenly feels too small. he was gone for so long, and now he’s here, standing in your kitchen like nothing’s changed.

like everything hasn’t.

"you still eat those awful store-bought apple slices?" he asks, nodding toward the fridge.

"mm. got tired of cutting them myself."

he exhales sharply—something between a laugh and a sigh. "figures. lazy as ever."

you expect him to leave it at that, but then, before you can process it, he’s reaching for the fruit bowl on the counter. a knife glints in his hand, and for a second, your breath catches. not because you’re afraid—no, never of him—but because of how he holds it.

not with the careless ease of someone cutting fruit. but with the precise grip of a soldier trained to kill.

a second too late, he seems to realize it too. his fingers shift, adjusting to something more casual, more familiar.

"still want them peeled?" he asks, tone too light.

you force yourself to breathe. "obviously."

he hums. starts peeling. his movements are too smooth, too calculated, but for a moment, if you squint, you can almost pretend.

almost.

he hands you a slice without looking up. you take it.

it tastes the same.

you chew slowly, watching him, waiting for something—anything—that feels real.

his gaze flickers to yours, unreadable. then, softer, quieter—

"good?"

the apple sits heavy on your tongue.

you swallow.

"yeah."

you chew, swallow, and place the half-eaten slice on the counter. caleb watches, waiting for something—maybe for you to complain about how the pieces aren’t cut evenly like you used to. but you don’t. you just stare at him, this version of him, and you realize something.

you still want him.

not just the boy he used to be—the one who would throw you over his shoulder just to prove he could, the one who’d grumble about being your fake boyfriend but always played the part too well. no, you want this caleb, too. the one who stands before you now, heavier with the weight of things unsaid, carrying shadows you don’t recognize.

your fingers twitch, and before you can overthink it, you reach out. you expect him to flinch when you press your palm against his wrist—his grip tightens just slightly around the knife, but he doesn’t pull away.

"caleb." you say his name like an answer to a question neither of you have asked.

his jaw tightens. he sets the knife down, slow and deliberate. when he finally looks at you, his eyes are searching, guarded—but underneath it, there’s something raw. something afraid.

"i know," he says. and it’s barely a whisper, but you hear everything. the guilt, the exhaustion, the hesitation.

you exhale. "i never said anything."

"you don’t have to." his lips press into a thin line. "i can tell."

you consider denying it, telling him he’s being dramatic, but you’re tired of pretending. so instead, you squeeze his wrist, grounding him.

"it’s okay," you say quietly. "if you’re no longer the same caleb I knew."

his breath hitches. you feel it more than you hear it.

"because either way—" you tighten your grip, firm, unwavering, "you’re never leaving me again."

his body stills. like he’s waiting for the catch, for the conditions, for something that makes this feel less like a promise and more like a fleeting moment he can let slip through his fingers.

but you don’t take it back.

caleb swallows. his free hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

"say it again," he murmurs, voice barely above a breath.

you step closer. "you’re never leaving me again. i won't let you."

this time, he exhales shakily, as if he’s been holding his breath for years. and then—finally—he rests his forehead against yours.

neither of you move.

the apples sit forgotten on the counter.

(caleb drops a bag onto the counter with a dull thud.

you glance at it, then at him. “what’s this?”

“apples,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves.

you blink. “they’re not pre-cut.”

“no shit,” he snorts, pulling out a knife. "figured you were overdue for the real thing.”

you watch as he starts peeling—smooth, practiced movements, no hesitation. he still holds the knife like a soldier, but his hands are steady, deliberate. for you.

a slice appears in front of your face. you take it without a word. it tastes fresher, sweeter.

he smirks. “better than that store-bought crap?”

you chew, swallowing down something thick in your throat, replacing it with something lighter in your chest.

“…yeah.”)

[leighsartworks216]

My Pretty Bird

Sylus x gn!Reader

Soooo I got this idea suddenly and I HAD to write it. In my head I imagine you have a shapeshifting Evol that lets you turn into a crow and Ever ran experiments on you that basically mechanized you. Sylus found you and you've been partners ever since. But build whatever backstory you want lol

Warnings: silly, fluff, established relationship, shapeshifting, kissing, nudity, casual nudity, references to Midnight Stealth (Bond)

Word Count: 914

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First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Third Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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Sylus smirks as he approaches you, all too amused with the hijinks Miss Hunter is getting up to.

You are decidedly less amused. Your feathers are all in disarray - some lay sadly on the floor, some are crumpled. You’re working desperately to straighten them out with your beak. Gentle fingers join in the work, caressing and flattening the feathers on your head and neck.

“What did she do to you, hm?”

Once your feathers are all smooth and settled, you hop up onto his shoulder, still bare from his shower and a little damp. He walks over to the bed. He outstretches an arm toward it, which you use as a bridge, stepping down from his wrist to the comforter. He busies himself with gathering clothes.

The familiar sound of shifting metal comes from behind. It’s not grating; softened over years of this happening.

“She shook me!” you cry out. The bed sinks under your weight, now in the shape and form of a human. The familiar red eyes of your bird form stare at his back. “I know you like her, but she’s really pissing me off. Who shakes a bird?!”

He chuckles, ruffling your feathers even more as you glare at him. His towel is tossed carelessly aside as he gets dressed. Rippling muscles are soon hidden with sleepwear and a robe. “She shook you?”

You huff. “Don’t say it like I’m stupid. You know I have it recorded.”

“I know. And I’m sure you’ll make sure she gets hers, soon enough.”

“You got that right.”

The towel is picked up on strands of energy and carried away to the hamper. You watch them as they go. You’ve always enjoyed the way it looks. Like rubies and ash. An unobtainable shiny object.

His hand glides along your jaw, rough calluses rubbing just under your chin. You automatically tilt your head back, eyes drooping in pleasure. “Just a few more days, I promise. You can handle that can’t you?” Damn him and that low timbre voice. On top of the scratches, you’re a goner.

You sigh. His fingers slow to a stop to grab your chin. When you open your eyes, he’s right there, looking at you with a deep fondness.

“Fine…”

He grins as he leans down to capture your lips. He tastes so warm and familiar. A soothing balm to all the stress you’ve been under lately, chasing after Miss Hunter and making sure she’s not being tracked by anyone else. A fitting reward for putting up with her.

When he pulls away, you shoot him a look. “But if she gets near me again like that, I’m pecking her eyes out.”

He chuckles warmly. “I’ll make sure she knows. I can’t have her upsetting my pretty bird like that again so soon.”

“I’d prefer ‘ever again’, but…”

“You’ll find something else to be annoyed about with her.”

“I already have a list.”

“Just a few more days.” His eyes close as he presses a kiss to your cheek. Then he rubs his nose against yours. It makes a fluttering sound of contentment slip free from your chest. And he looks all too smug about it. “Can you do that for me?”

You reach up, fingers slipping into soft white locks. He leans into your touch with his own appreciative grunt. “I can, but only if you call me your pretty bird a few more times.”

It’s the easiest deal he’s ever made. He’s more than happy to provide as he brushes his nose along your cheek, kissing lightly as he goes. “My pretty bird,” he hums lowly as he kisses just behind your ear.

You sink into his attention like always. You expose more of your neck to him without hesitation, giving him full access to kiss and nip at the skin there.

He grazes his teeth along your artificial pulse. “My pretty bird.”

Every mark, every peck is pure reverence. He sighs at the junction of your shoulder. He bites down harder here, hot tongue soothing over the indents of his teeth. “My pretty bird.”

The slightest twitch of your fingers in his hair is enough to draw him back up. His mouth finds yours with ease, kissing you deeply and in absolutely no rush. The cool air of the room chills the patches of his saliva left behind on your skin. It sends a chill down your spine.

You’re loath to pull away, but you can feel the exhaustion that slows his movements. It’s so faint - even Miss Hunter wouldn’t notice it. But you do. You always notice everything when it comes to Sylus.

You give him one last peck. His eyes, half-lidded and beautiful, watch you with unbridled care. “It’s a deal.”

Before his eyes, metal shifts and shrinks, until there are no fingers in his hair and he’s scratching under the chin of a mechanical crow. He smiles. “Goodnight, pretty bird.”

You hop away and fly off to your perch. He watches as you go right back to preening your feathers, as though being up there again has reminded you of Miss Hunter’s cruel acts against you.

He straightens back up with a sigh. Ever will pay for the cruel methods of their research. For everything they’ve done. For everything they did to you. It’s only a matter of time now. And it will be done. All he needs now is for Miss Hunter to find the brooch, tucked safely under the lapel of his robe.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[xtangerinefilmx]

yours

summary: Din has you role play as his receptionist before living out his cock warming fantasy. (part of the Ours series on AO3, can be read as a stand alone)

pairing: (din djarin/the mandalorian x fem!reader)

word count: 2.2k

warnings: smutty smut smut. minors BEGONE! (and language)

“Come in,” Din said softly from the other side of the door in reply to your sharp knock. 

When you opened the door to his office you found him leaning back into the cushion of his seat, hands interlocked and resting in lap as he spread his leg slightly. Despite the fact he’d already fucked you twice today (once on the couch, then again in the shower), your body still began to get worked up at the sight of him and the way his eyes slowly made their way up your body. He tilted his chin up with a slight smirk while he appreciated what he saw. As he always did. 

“And how can I help you?” Din said, his voice practically dripping with mischief. 

He’d been the one to suggest you two role play a bit to get into the mood for the whole cock warming thing. You were a bit hesitant at first, but not because you didn’t want to. You were just worried you’d sound silly and ruin the mood. He assured you that you had nothing to worry about.

“There’s been a few calls for you, sir. I think Mrs Davies is trying to get a hold of you,” you said demurely. 

“And what did you tell her?” Din asked.

“I had to tell her you weren’t taking on any new clients. That you didn’t have time for her,” you let a small smirk loose. 

Din let out a chuckle at that. “That’s not the truth, is it baby? You just wanna keep me for yourself,” Din said that last part as a statement. Because that would never be a question. 

You hesitated with your reply. Finally stepping out of the doorway and closing the office door behind you. It was so easy to fall into the scene. No matter the circumstances Din was so easy to fall into. 

“Of course, sir. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I know, you’re my boss. But I can’t help but stare at how your ass looks in your workout shorts, and how they don’t even hide how big your cock is,” you saunter close to his desk. “I see how hard I make you. Don’t try to hide it. You want to ram your cock into my pussy until I cry, don’t you?”

You finally made it to his side, a determined look on your face as you pushed his chair back and wiggled your way in front of him. You knew the look on his face. He wanted to let go. To say ‘fuck it’ and just bend you over his desk right away. 

“How could I not? God, look at that ass,” Din groaned as his hands reached around to grasp both of your asscheeks in his hand, grasping roughly. The next second he pulled you into his lap, straddling his obvious erection. “You’d let me fuck your ass wouldn’t you? I bet I could make you beg for it. And you know how I’d do that?”

At this point his hands had begun grinding you down into his lap. You were whimpering at the feeling of him against your sensitive core. “How?” you asked, turning up the doe-eyed routine. This was getting good for you.

“I want you to lower yourself onto my cock. Then you’re going to sit on it until I say otherwise. No moving, and no touching yourself. We’ll see how long we last. Then i’ll bend you over this desk and fuck you until I fill you up. Just like the little slut you are,” Din spoke into your neck, giving you the tingle that you loved so much. 

“Fuck,” you let out as you continued to grind down on his cock. “Yes, please sir.” You don’t know where the ‘sir’ came from but you both seemed to like it. 

“Take it out, baby. I want you to get it wet with your mouth. Please,” a bit of the ‘normal’ Din slipped through at the end. Wanting you to know you could back out whenever. As if you ever would. 

Automatically, you pushed him further back until the back of his chair hit the wall. He’d put his usual casual clothes back on; basketball shorts and a t-shirt. His ‘whore clothes’ you would call them. You pulled the shorts down, aided by his hips lifting off the chair. His leaking cock was always a welcome sight. He muffled a groan with his hand as you went straight to sucking on the tip.

“That’s it, just like that sweetheart. Get it nice and wet and you’ll get your reward,” Din told you. 

You could feel yourself drenching your underwear, fully immersed into the fantasy you two were creating. Sucking his dick was always a turn on for you. Din was just so vocal it was impossible to doubt whether he was enjoying it. Wanting to get to the best part you quickly worked your mouth up and down his shaft to get him ready. 

“Come up here, baby. You did such a good job, but now you have to be extra good for me. Understand?” Din grabbed you by your arms, lifting you back into a standing position. “Now let’s take these off.”

Goosebumps began appearing along your skin as Din expertly undressed you, making quick work of your shorts and underwear. Then pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it with the rest of your clothing. 

“Can I please sit on it? I want to feel you stretch me open,” you said. 

“Go ahead,” Din leaned back again into his seat. 

Without a second thought you climbed into his lap, positioning your legs to comfortably straddle him before you positioned his cock at your entrance. Both Din’s hands landed on your hips to stabilize you as you sunk down. Neither of you broke eye contact as you took him in down to the hilt. By the time you’d made yourself comfortable you could tell the whole ‘not moving’ was going to be hard. You automatically wanted to start moving yourself in his lap. 

“That’s my girl. Now rest against my chest, and I’m going to finish a few emails. Okay?” Din was already breathing heavier, but he seemed determined to follow through. 

You mumbled in agreement before moving to place your head in the crook of his neck, your hands falling to circle around his torso. Fuck, you could feel everything so much more intensely. You focused solely on keeping still, the urge to move was a hard instinct to ignore. It was like you could feel every vein on him, and every breath made sent little shocks to where the two of you connected. 

Din slightly shuffled to get his arms around to begin working at his computer. A little gasp  was forced out of you and his dick twitched inside you. God. You just wanted to ride him until the two of you were both spent, but you had only just begun. 

You began to lose track of time as the minutes passed you by. All you knew was that you were making a complete mess of Din’s lap. Sweat was beading on your forehead and you were gripping Din’s shirt. The feel of him stretching you open and staying still was torturous. Growing impatient you began clenching yourself around him in hopes it would tempt him. 

“Behave,” Din bit out. A sharp slap on your bare ass accompanied his words, jolting you and giving you the sweet friction you’d been craving. 

“Nowhere in your rules did you say I couldn’t do that,” you shot back playfully. 

One of Din’s large hands reached down to hold you firmly in place against him. “I thought we were going to play fair, my love. Now stay still for just a little while longer. I’m almost done, and then you can get fucked like I promised.” 

It took all your willpower, but you gave up on teasing him until he broke. For the most part. To keep yourself entertained you began leaving open mouthed kisses along Din’s neck. Mouthing bruises on his tan skin. Din just kept tapping away at his computer, and you couldn’t even turn to see if he was actually doing work. For all you knew he could be dragging this out as long as he could. Fuck, that was something that he would do. You just wanted to move a little, feel the way the curls at the base of his cock tickled against your clit. 

Every small sensation was beginning to push your arousal even further. His hot breath hitting you. The rub of his shirt against your bare chest. 

Tears of frustration started to pool in your eyes. “Din, baby please. I need you to fuck me,” you cried. God, you sounded a bit pathetic but you were too far gone to care. 

Din didn’t automatically reply. He let out a few deep breaths before quickly finishing whatever email he was writing. You knew the end was near when he shut his laptop and pushed his chair back a few inches. 

“Look at me, sweetheart,” Din said, his voice firm but still loving. “I want you to tell me how you liked that.”

You lifted your head until your eyes met his dark ones. He looked like he was ready to devour you. 

“I loved it. I love having you that close to me, and feeling you stretch me like nobody else can,” you answered truthfully. As intense as cock warming was, you’d never felt closer to Din. You just wanted to pull him entirely inside of you. 

“That’s good to hear, baby. You did so good for me, and now you can get your reward. I’ll forgive that little stunt you pulled trying to get me to break,” Din chuckled. 

“I’m sorry. You know how much I love your cock,” you giggled. 

“Now get off my cock and bend yourself over that desk,” Din demanded. You complied, and pushed his laptop out of your way. “Such a well behaved girl. Reach back and spread yourself so I can see the mess we made.” 

When you did as he asked you shivered a bit. You felt exposed, and the chill air of his office hit the wet trail making a mess of your thighs. 

“Fuck, so messy and pretty. Are you okay if I take a picture? It’s okay if you’re uncomfortable,”  Din spoke softly, his fingers coming slowly to dip inside of you. 

“Shit, yes. Fuck, you could film yourself fucking me for all I care. Just get inside me quick,” you groaned, pushing yourself back onto his fingers. 

A string of curses left Din, and he scrambled to grab his phone from the desk. You couldn’t really look back at him in the awkward position you held yourself in, but you could hear as he began to snap photos of his fingers buried inside of you. You could hear him mumbling things like ‘so pretty’ and ‘mine’. He finally pulled his fingers out of you, but hesitates before going to fuck you.

“What is it baby?” You asked, pulling your hands back to hold your weight on the desk. 

“Did you mean it when you said I could film it?” Din’s voice sounded ragged. 

“I trust you not to show anyone. It's just for us, so yes,” you said.

Din made it easy to trust him, and if you were being honest you were looking forward to watching the video with him later. Maybe have him stream it on the TV in his bedroom while he fingered you while watching it. 

It took a  moment, but Din found a good position to set his phone in. He hit record before pulling his shirt over his head leaving him in just his pulled down shorts. 

“Are you ready, baby?” Din spoke gently as he lined himself up with your soaked entrance. 

“Please. I’m begging you.”

Din pushed all the way inside of you, groaning at the wet sound the two of you made together. You gripped the desk under you, relishing in the sensation of him finally moving. 

“That’s it. Can you feel how perfectly we fit together? Who does this pussy belong to?” Din grunted, his thrusts picking up speed as he got a hold on your hips. He’d definitely be leaving bruises. 

“Yours. It’s yours,” you replied. 

His hips began snapping against you like a jackhammer, your face becoming pressed against the wood. 

After being sat on his cock with no relief for what felt like ages you had already been close to climaxing. Now he was hitting your g spot with fervor and you found yourself crying out in mind numbing pleasure. This man really knew how to play your body like an instrument. The slap of skin against skin and the sound of the desk scraping against the floor was an intoxicating rhythm. 

“Gonna cum. I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered. 

“Let go baby. I want to feel you milk me,” Din demanded. After a handful of more rough thrusts Din had you sobbing your release under him. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. Gonna fill you up. Just like I promised.”

He buried himself to the hilt and held himself there as you felt him release himself deep into you. Once he finished he let his weight drop onto your back, his arms coming to your sides caging you in. 

“Thank you for that, baby,” Din finally whispered against your neck. 

“Hmm, don’t thank me. Just promise we can watch that video together later,” you said.

a/n: hope you enjoyed! the rest of the series is already on my ao3 if you want more of the series!

[thepinkpanther83]

Student Body (Pt.11 Class of ‘86, Baby!)

Chapter Ten: “Class of ‘86, Baby!” (Part Two)

Eddie Munson x Mrs. O'Donnell

Cover Fanart by ThePinkPanther83

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter Ten: "Class of '86, Baby!" (Part One)

Next: Student Body Follow-Up now available: Student Body: "Winter Break" or read on AO3 (*One Shot*) (NSFW)

I had to break this last chapter up into two parts for Tumblr. You can read it all as one part on AO3, however, if you prefer.

The Final Chapter (Part 2)

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Ten: “Class of ‘86, Baby!” (Part Two)

School Parking Lot, 1:45 PM

The second his boots hit asphalt, Eddie Munson howled like a wolf under a full moon.

“GRADUATED, BITCHES!”

It was unclear who exactly he was addressing- the world? Satan? Principal Higgins? -but it didn’t matter. His voice cracked on the last note, and it only made his friends cheer louder.

Hellfire had already claimed the back half of the parking lot like it was hallowed ground. Gareth’s pickup truck was backed into a spot with the tailgate down, blasting Ratt from a battered boombox someone duct-taped to a cooler. Jeff was double-fisting glass bottles of neon-pink Boone’s Farm like he’d just discovered the cure for senior year. Grant had somehow acquired silly string and a Sharpie and was scribbling “SCHOOL’S OUT FOR MUNSON” across the side of Eddie’s van in crooked block letters.

“Dude, it’s so bad it’s almost good,” Gareth said, admiring the graffiti like a true connoisseur of chaos.

Eddie laughed, full-bellied and loose in the limbs, arms spread like he was ready to be canonized in denim and patches. “Don’t stop now, Van Gogh, tag the back too. Make it official. Like a tombstone.”

Grant immediately complied, drawing devil horns on the ‘86 while Dustin threw open the van doors and started passing out cans of root beer like it was champagne. He wasn’t a senior yet, but he was as much Hellfire as the rest of them- and tonight, they all felt like kings.

Wayne stood a little off to the side, trying not to look out of place. His good flannel was buttoned to the throat. His hair had been combed down smooth but was already falling back into a scruff at the temples. He held a disposable camera in one hand like it was a live grenade.

Eddie turned to him, grin faltering for just a second. “You gonna take a picture or are you worried it’ll break the lens?”

Wayne just grunted, then raised the camera and snapped the photo. “Too late,” he said.

They both cracked up.

Someone got a group shot. Someone else handed Wayne a bottle- he waved it off but stayed close, letting the kids jostle him like he was part of the gang. Eddie looped an arm around his uncle’s shoulders and pulled him in for another picture, this one less posed. It was blurry, caught mid-laugh. The kind that would live in a shoebox for twenty years and still make you feel seventeen when you saw it again.

But even with all the noise- the laughter, the music, the glass clinking, the occasional shout of “CLASS OF ‘86, BABY!” -Eddie kept reaching up. Just casually. Just reflexively.

Fingers brushing over the skin of his neck. Right below his ear. Just above the collar of his gown.

Where her mouth had been just hours before.

Where her teeth had scraped. Where her lips had sucked so hard he’d winced- then gasped. She’d marked him. Again and again. Like she wanted to be sure he wouldn’t forget, even when she wasn’t around to remind him.

His thumb dragged across the heat of one still-tender hickey, half-lidded for a moment, drunk on the memory of her.

“Yo, Eddie,” Dustin called from the van, “you gonna keep making out with your own neck, or come toast with the rest of us?”

Eddie flipped him off automatically, smirking.

But his hand stayed at his throat just a second longer.

School Parking Lot, 1:45 PM

The party eventually started to break- Jeff had to drop his little brother off somewhere, Gareth was rallying everyone to convoy to the diner, and someone had thrown their gown into a tree. Possibly Grant. Probably Grant.

Eddie stayed behind a minute longer, leaning back against the side of the van like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t.

His hair was sticking to the back of his neck, his face was flushed with sun and sentiment, and he still hadn’t taken off his gown. Not yet. Not until-

His eyes lifted.

Her window.

Second floor. Third from the left.

The blinds were half-drawn, sunlight hazing across the glass like a veil. He didn’t know if she was in there yet. Couldn’t tell. Wouldn’t let himself guess.

But he looked anyway.

And for a second- just a second, he imagined her there. Hands pressed to the windowsill. Lips parted, watching him. Wanting to run down the stairs and into his arms, consequences be damned. He wanted to believe she was there now, heart still galloping, hands still shaking, remembering the way he looked at her on that stage like she was the only real thing in the world.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

Wayne came up beside him, squinting at the building. “You forget something?”

“No,” Eddie muttered. Then added, “Yeah. Maybe.”

Wayne didn’t press. Just clapped him on the back with a hand rough enough to make him stumble a little. “Diner?”

Eddie nodded.

They piled into the van- Eddie behind the wheel, Dustin riding shotgun like a little king, the rest crammed in back with limbs tangled and voices overlapping. There was a fresh spray of Boone’s Farm across the seat from when Gareth tried- and failed, to pop it like champagne, and the boombox was still blaring.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Eddie risked one last glance in the rearview mirror.

No movement in the window.

No silhouette.

No sign.

But he touched his neck again anyway, and drove.

Benny’s Diner, 2:15 PM

“Okay, but seriously,” Dustin said, waving a fry for emphasis, “you flipping off Higgins was the highlight of my entire academic career. I don’t even care that I’m not a senior yet.”

Eddie grinned around a mouthful of chili dog. “You’re welcome, young squire. Let it be known that Sir Munson doth take requests.”

“You’re not a knight,” Gareth muttered.

“You barely even passed,” Grant added.

Wayne sipped his black coffee, unmoved. “He passed. That’s all that matters.”

They were squeezed into two booths at the back of Benny’s, the kind with cracked red vinyl and sugar caddies that hadn’t been refilled since ‘84. The air smelled like grease, pickles, and teenage triumph.

Jeff was drawing crude skulls on his napkin with ketchup. Gareth had stolen two forks and was sword fighting with himself. Someone had brought in the boombox, which now sat quietly on the table, a low hum of background rock filling the gaps between laughter.

Eddie was in his element.

Mostly.

But even here- surrounded by his people, his tribe, his future band of misfit legends, he kept drifting. Not obviously. Just now and then. His fingers would find the edge of the booth. Tap twice. Then hover over the hickey just under his jaw. Like muscle memory. Like longing in motion.

He didn’t say her name.

Didn’t have to.

She was in the way he smiled at nothing. The way his gaze lingered on the window beside their table, like maybe she’d walk past and see him through the glass. Maybe she’d smile.

Maybe she already had.

Dustin leaned in. “You okay, dude?”

Eddie blinked, shook his head like he was coming up for air. “Yeah. Just- full.”

Dustin gave him a suspicious squint. “Of food?”

“Of life,” Eddie corrected dramatically, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. “Try it sometime.”

Wayne chuckled softly. “He’s in love.”

Eddie froze.

The table fell weirdly quiet.

Then Dustin, delighted: “Oh my god, you are! With who?!”

Eddie’s ears went scarlet. “Shut the hell up.”

“Noooo,” Gareth howled, slapping the table. “Who is it, Munson?! Is it that chick from the record store?!”

Grant piped in, “What about the one from band rehearsal with the, what was it- purple tights?”

Then Dustin, “Wait- IS IT Mrs. O'Donnell?”

Eddie nearly choked on his soda.

Wayne didn’t even flinch. Just sipped his coffee again and muttered, “Kids ain’t blind.”

His soda went down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit that had him slamming his fist against the table. His face burned hotter than the chili sauce smeared across his plate. "Jesus Christ, Henderson-" he wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The table erupted.

Gareth gasped like he'd just witnessed a murder. "NO FUCKING WAY."

Jeff dropped his ketchup-covered fork with a clatter. "Mrs. O’Donnell?! The hot english teacher?!"

Dustin's eyes were the size of saucers. "Oh my god. Oh my god. AM I RIGHT?! That's why you actually tried this semester-"

Eddie kicked him under the table. "Shut your mouth, I will end you-"

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Wayne just sighed into his coffee like this was the least surprising revelation of his life.

Grant, ever the poet, leaned back in the booth with a slow grin. "Man. That explains so much."

Eddie wanted to melt into the vinyl. Or maybe set the diner on fire. Either worked.

Dustin, the little shit, was grinning. "Dude. Dude. You like her."

Eddie flipped him off with both hands. "Fuck you."

Gareth clutched his chest like he was having a spiritual awakening. "Wait. Wait. Wait. That time you came to band practice with hickeys... You have one RIGHT NOW!" He yelled while pointing at Eddie’s neck.

Eddie slammed his palms on the table. "ENOUGH."

The entire diner went quiet.

Eddie realized, belatedly, that he'd just shouted in the middle of Benny’s.

A waitress paused mid-pour at the counter. A family of four in the next booth over stared.

Wayne took another sip of coffee.

Eddie slowly sank back into his seat, face on fire.

Dustin, whispering now: "So... are you in love with her?"

Eddie groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Fuck my life."

Grant clapped him on the shoulder. "Nah, man. Fuck hers."

The table lost it.

Eddie buried his face in his arms.

He lifted his head just enough to glare at Grant through the curtain of his hair. "Not another word," he growled, voice low and dangerous. "Or I swear to Satan, I will make sure your next D&D character gets eaten by a fucking gelatinous cube in the first session."

The threat landed with surprising weight- Grant actually paled a little.

Dustin, however, was undeterred. Leaning in, he stage-whispered, "How far did it go?"

Eddie’s fingers twitched toward his neck again- fuck. He forced his hand down, gripping the edge of the table instead. "None of your goddamn business."

Gareth gasped. "It went all the way."

Jeff choked on his milkshake.

Wayne sighed, long-suffering, and finally set his coffee down with a decisive clink. "Alright. That’s enough." His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a man who’d spent years breaking up back-alley brawls. "Y’all leave him be."

A moment of silence.

Then, miraculously, the table obeyed.

Dustin slumped back, pouting. Gareth busied himself with stealing fries off Jeff’s plate. Grant muttered something about gelatinous cubes being bullshit, but he dropped it.

Eddie exhaled, shoulders loosening.

Wayne gave him a look- subtle, but loaded. Like he knew exactly how deep this went. Like he’d known for a while.

Eddie swallowed hard.

The table’s noise fades behind them as Wayne nods toward the back exit.

“Come on, Ed.”

Eddie glanced up from his half-empty basket of onion rings. “Huh?”

Wayne motioned with his thumb. “Walk with me a sec.”

Eddie frowned. “I didn’t even do anything-”

Wayne’s brow raised just enough to cut through the bullshit. “A walk. Not a trial.”

Still grumbling, Eddie slid out of the booth and followed Wayne through the swinging back door into the alley behind Benny’s. It smelled like hot asphalt and fryer grease, but the spring breeze took the edge off.

Wayne lit a cigarette. Didn’t offer one.

For a minute, they just stood there. No words. Just the crackle of tobacco, and the faint sound of Def Leppard bleeding through the diner window.

Then Wayne spoke:

“So.”

That was it. Just so. Loaded as hell.

Eddie crossed his arms. “Look, if this is about the hickey thing, I didn’t plan on flashing the whole diner-”

“It’s not the hickey.”

“…Okay.”

Wayne took a drag, exhaled through his nose. “It’s the teacher.”

Eddie flinched like he’d been struck. “Jesus. Everyone’s got jokes today.”

Wayne gave him a look. “You think I didn’t know? You come home smelling like expensive perfume and guilt for weeks, and you think I’m blind?”

“I don’t smell like-”

“You reek of it, Ed.”

Eddie looked away, jaw clenched.

Wayne’s tone softened, but only a little. “You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on? Really?”

Eddie kicked a pebble, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Does it matter? You already got your opinion.”

“Yeah,” Wayne said. “I do.” He paused. “And I’m hoping to hell it’s wrong.”

That jabbed harder than expected. Eddie straightened. “You think I- what? Manipulated her?”

“I know you tried.”

Eddie’s face went red. “Okay, so what?! Yeah, that was the plan at first. Big bad Eddie Munson seduces the lonely, hot English teacher, gets an A, rides off into the metal sunset.” He huffed. “Only it didn’t work like that.”

Wayne stared.

“She saw right through it, man,” Eddie said, voice cracking just slightly. “She called my bluff before anything even happened. Told me I was full of shit. Said if I really wanted to graduate, I’d have to earn it.”

Wayne didn’t speak.

“So I did,” Eddie said, quieter now. “She helped me. Flashcards. Late-night study sessions. She made me rewrite three whole essays from scratch. She wouldn’t let me cheat. Wouldn’t even kiss me. Not until I’d pass, get answers right.” He huffed a laugh. “She made me learn.”

Wayne exhaled. “So you’re saying you caught feelings.”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Somewhere in between learning Shakespeare quotes and actually giving a shit about comma splices… I kinda… yeah.”

Wayne nodded slowly, cigarette burning low. “You love her?”

Eddie shifted. “I don’t-  I mean, maybe. I think so. Shit, I don’t know. Is that crazy?”

Wayne snorted. “No crazier than any love story I’ve ever seen.” He stubbed the cigarette out on a brick. “But you gotta understand somethin’, Ed.”

Eddie looked up.

“This ain’t high school crush territory. This is grown-folk mess. You’re gonna be under a microscope if anyone finds out. She’s risking her job. Her life, depending on how loud this gets.”

“I know,” Eddie said, frustrated. “You think I haven’t thought about that? That it doesn’t kill me that she couldn’t even come celebrate today?”

“Then treat her right,” Wayne said. “Don’t make her a joke. Don’t make her a shortcut. If you’re gonna walk this road, you walk it like a man. That means honesty. That means respect. That means keeping your damn mouth shut when the peanut gallery starts squawking.”

Eddie nodded. Eyes shining. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

Wayne clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You better. ’Cause I’ll tell you right now, if I hear you hurt that woman-”

“I know,” Eddie said quickly. “I wouldn’t.”

Another moment passed.

Then Wayne smirked. “You always were a sucker for the smart ones.”

Eddie cracked a grin. “Guess I got that from you.”

Wayne shook his head and pushed open the diner door. “Come on, Romeo. Before your crew starts drawing a pentagram in ketchup and summoning demons.”

Eddie chuckled, following him in.

He wasn’t sure what the future held. But for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe he was ready for it.

Donna’s House, 6:03 PM The sun’s barely hanging on outside her window, bleeding gold and rose through gauzy curtains she hasn't had the energy to change since winter. It should feel like the start of summer break, like relief. Instead, the room feels too quiet. Too still.

She’s barefoot, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a red pen tucked behind her ear and a glass of cabernet sweating on a coaster beside her knee. It’s her second pour, but she’s not really drinking. Just sipping. Letting it dull the ache behind her eyes that started when she reached the bottom of Eddie Munson’s final essay.

And god, he really tried. It wasn’t just passable. It was good. Thoughtful, even. A little messy in places, but undeniably him- his voice, his spark, all tangled up in questions about redemption arcs in The Count of Monte Cristo and analyzing themes in The Raven. She should be happy. She should feel proud.

Instead, she’s holding back tears and chewing the inside of her cheek raw, because there’s nothing left to grade. No reason for him to come back.

He’s gone.

This was always the deal. Quiet smiles in the hallway. Sharing half her lunch behind a locked classroom door. Moaned secrets pressed into her pillow when he stayed the night. It was never meant to last.

Her hand trembles just slightly as she finishes her mark on the last paper, and sets it on the table. She exhales slow. Heavy. Wipes her eyes with the hem of her tee shirt.

Then-

A knock.

Not loud. Not hurried. Just- three soft raps.

She freezes. Stares at the door like it might vanish if she blinks hard enough. Her wine glass sits abandoned on the couch as she stands. Bare feet on cool hardwood.

She peeks through the peephole. Her breath catches.

Of course.

Eddie Munson.

In a faded jean jacket over his threadbare Hellfire Club shirt, a greasy paper bag dangling from one hand, and in the other- a bottle of the cheapest red wine her corner store sells.

She opens the door. Doesn’t say a word.

He grins at her like a boy who’s just stolen a car and wants to take her for a joyride in it. “Didn’t feel right celebrating without you.”

She swallows. Her eyes flick to the bag. Chinese. The place she always orders from on Fridays. He remembered.

She says nothing. Steps aside.

Eddie walks in slowly, like he feels like he’s not really supposed to. Like he’s waiting for her to slam the door shut in his face and say it’s a mistake.

But she doesn’t. She closes the door gently after he enters.

The crinkle of the takeout bag breaks the silence.

Eddie sets it on her kitchen counter like it’s precious cargo- untwisting the plastic handles with careful fingers, slow and methodical. He doesn’t meet her eyes.

“I, uh…” he sets the bag on her kitchen counter, fusses with the plastic handles like it’s suddenly difficult to open. “Celebratory lunch was weird without you there.”

Her voice is quieter than she means it to be. “Didn’t seem… appropriate. You know I couldn’t be there. People talk.”

He chuckles softly. Doesn’t look up. “Yeah. That whole 'secret scandal' vibe kinda kills the party atmosphere, huh?”

He still won’t look at her. Just starts unpacking boxes- lo mein, sesame chicken, dumplings- and sets them out like it’s something they do all the time. Like this is normal.

When he brushes past her on his way to the sink, his knuckles graze her hip. Barely a touch. But it lights her up like a match.

She flinches. Just a little.

Not from shock.

From how tender he is tonight.

And it splits her wide open. Because for a second- just one second, she lets herself believe that maybe this isn’t goodbye.

Maybe he came to stay.

He hands her a pair of chopsticks without looking up. She takes them and murmurs a thank you that feels too soft for the room.

They move around each other in silence- choreographed without thinking. She grabs plates, he fills them. He nudges a takeout box toward her and mumbles, “Extra sauce. I remembered.”

She smiles at the carton like it’s a gift. “You remembered I hate when they give me just one.”

“You always act like it’s a moral offense,” he grins. “Like it’s personal.”

“It is personal. Some of us need options.”

He hums under his breath while grabbing drinks- some dumb, half-remembered melody from a Dio song. Or maybe something from his band. She’s not sure. But the sound of it cuts straight through her chest.

She tries not to look at him. Fails. Every time he catches her gaze, she looks away fast enough to feel it in her neck.

They eat on opposite ends of the tiny kitchen table. Close enough that their knees knock once or twice. He makes her laugh, describing some awkward toast Gareth gave at the graduation lunch- “he called me the ‘patron saint of academic mediocrity’ which like… okay, not wrong, but maybe not the moment.”

She laughs harder than she expects to. Laughs until it almost hurts. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, and his grin softens in that way it does when he’s proud of himself for pulling it out of her.

She doesn’t say she’s proud of him. She wants to. It catches in her throat like a pit.

The silence stretches again- not uncomfortable, just weighty.

Then, out of nowhere, he leans across the table with a napkin in hand. Gently, he dabs at her chin.

“Sauce,” he says. Like it’s nothing.

She flinches again, smaller this time.

But he notices.

His hand lingers a moment longer than it needs to. Just a second. Just enough.

She smiles anyway.

Trying to enjoy this like it’s not the last time.

Eddie’s fingers drum lazily against the back of her couch, his body already draped sideways like he belongs there- like he always has.

“You gonna let me pick?” he asks, jerking his chin toward her modest record shelf. “Or am I about to get another mandatory Nick Drake session followed by a long cry about my inner child?”

She arches a brow, arms crossed as she leans in the doorway. “You only say that because I won’t let you play Dio in here.”

“That’s a crime against good taste, you know that?” he says, rising with a dramatic groan. “You’ve got Fleetwood Mac, Leonard Cohen, The Cure- this whole shelf is like a heartbreak starter pack.”

“You sound jealous.”

He grins, all teeth. “Of course I am. I could never write something as brutal as So Long, Marianne.”

She rolls her eyes but lets him flip through. He makes a whole production out of it- fanning through the sleeves like they’re ancient scrolls. Muttering things like “Tragically romantic… terminally poetic… oh my God, is this Kate Bush?” until she swats a pillow at his head.

Eventually, he picks one they’ve listened to before. Something soft and worn down with time- Pink Moon. It suits the hour. The ache between them.

The record spins, the needle drops, and the room shifts. The quiet is filled now. Not just with sound, but with something heavier.

They settle on the couch, a little too close. Their knees knock gently, and this time neither of them moves.

She watches him as the music seeps in. He leans his head back, closes his eyes. Breathes in the melody like it’s clean air. And for a second, she lets herself look- really look, at him.

The curve of his mouth. That stray curl near his temple. His fingertips tapping rhythm against his knee.

He hums softly when the chorus comes. Barely audible. And her chest aches with it- like the sound slipped under her ribs when she wasn’t looking.

A line cuts through the static. Something about loss. Or maybe departure. She doesn’t catch all of it. Doesn’t want to.

“I’m gonna grab more wine,” she says too quickly. Her voice sticks at the edges.

He doesn’t move, just mumbles, “Bring the good stuff.”

In the kitchen, she clutches the counter. Swallows hard. Her fingers shake as she pours. Not because of the wine. Because of the clock inside her chest ticking louder by the second.

When she returns, he glances back at her over his shoulder, grinning like they’re just two kids killing time.

He pats the cushion beside him. “C’mon, song’s not the same without your sad commentary.”

She hesitates.

Then moves.

She settles beside him- closer than before. Her head finds his shoulder like it belongs there. His arm wraps around her waist without ceremony.

They melt into the couch together, the music weaving around them.

For a moment, it’s enough.

Then softly, barely above the music, she says, “This record... it got me through a lot once. My first year teaching. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d come home every night, pour a glass of something cheap, and just… let this play.”

He’s quiet.

Listens like the world depends on it.

She can feel his gaze, warm and grounding, but it’s too much. She exhales a shaky laugh and waves it off.

“Anyway. That was another life.”

He doesn’t press.

Doesn’t need to.

Because the way he pulls her closer says enough.

The record has spun into its last few songs. The lamp is the only light left, casting long shadows. It’s late enough that the quiet feels fragile.

The last song on the record plays low, a barely-there murmur of piano and breathy vocals. The kind of sound that stretches silence rather than filling it.

They haven’t spoken in a minute, but it’s not awkward. Just… full. The kind of lull that makes your chest feel too small.

She stares into her wine glass, swirls what’s left. The red clings to the sides like it doesn’t want to let go.

“So,” she says, eyes fixed on the glass, not on him, “you’ve graduated now.”

There’s a pause- then a grin she doesn’t see, but can hear.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s a kid caught doing something sweetly embarrassing. “Guess you’re finally free of your worst student.”

She lets out a sound that starts as a laugh but fractures halfway through. Breaks off into something soft and sharp.

“You were never the worst.”

It comes out too quiet. Too honest.

His smile falters. Just slightly. Eyes narrowing a fraction as he studies her. There's a flicker- confusion? Curiosity? But it passes so fast, he doesn’t give it a name.

Instead, she clears her throat, straightens her spine.

“Now, if I never have to read another one of your five-page diatribes on why Metallica lyrics qualify as poetry, I might survive.”

He snorts. The tension rolls off him like water.

“Hey, I stand by every word. That was Pulitzer-worthy shit.”

She laughs, a little too loud. Covers the crack in her voice with humor and redirection. It’s a performance now. A lifeline.

He leans his head back again, hands folded over his stomach.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Teach.”

And there it is.

She smiles. Plays the part. Nudges his knee with hers like it’s all a joke. Like she’s not bleeding through the fabric of her blouse.

“Never,” she says.

But inside? She’s crumbling.

Because she is sentimental. Because she is getting all emotional, all undone. Because the thought of him walking out of this house and not being hers in some unspoken, undefined way anymore feels like losing a limb.

But he doesn’t know that.

He’s relaxed. Content. Whole.

And she’s holding the line.

With white knuckles.

Her living room, dim now. The record’s stopped. The needle ticks in its groove. She doesn’t flip it. The wine is gone. The air feels like it’s holding its breath.

He’s on her couch like he owns it- like he always has. Sprawled out in that slouchy, boneless way of his, arms behind his head, one foot kicked over the armrest. His boots are off. His socks don’t match.

It would be funny if it didn’t ache so much to look at him.

“You know,” Eddie says, stretching like a cat, “I’ve been thinking about getting my own place. Like, really doing it. Outta Wayne’s hair and into some dumpy little shoebox where I can make all the noise I want.”

She raises a brow, watching from beside him. Legs curled up underneath her. “You’re gonna miss his hot dogs and conspiracy rants.”

He grins without opening his eyes. “Mmm. Maybe. But I’m kinda ready, y’know? Place of my own. Cracked ceiling, maybe some rats I can name. Real adult shit.”

“Bet your neighbors’ll love the midnight guitar solos.”

“Only if they have taste,” he murmurs, smug.

There’s a pause. A moment too long.

Then he says, with a lazy little smirk, “Might have to borrow your couch while the band takes off, though. Hope your guest policy includes long-haired degenerates with expensive amps and no sense of personal space.”

She laughs. Too quickly. Too loud.

“God, no. Absolutely not. My boundaries start at musicians who eat all my cereal.”

“Pfft. Harsh.” He’s still smiling. Still so relaxed. Like this- this, isn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Like this is just one of many nights.

She stares at him.

Her hands twist in the hem of her blouse, invisible under the blanket she’s pulled over her lap. She wants to tell him. Everything. That she’s scared this is the end. That she can’t stand not knowing if he means to stay. That she’s so full of him, she doesn’t know where she ends and he begins.

Instead, she swallows it all down and says, “You should crash here tonight. You look comfortable.”

He hums, eyes finally blinking open to look at her. There’s nothing calculating in his gaze. Just soft amusement.

“I was planning on it. Couch is already broken in, thanks to yours truly.”

He grins again and closes his eyes.

She bites her lip. Looks away.

She could say it now. Tell him she loves him. That she doesn’t want him to go anywhere that doesn’t have her in it.

But the words sit heavy in her throat. Too big. Too dangerous.

Instead, she watches him breathe. Steady. Easy. Like her presence is a given.

She shifts first.

Just a small lean. Barely anything. But his arm slides around her shoulders like he’s been waiting for her to do that all night.

Like muscle memory.

Like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

Her cheek finds his chest, and his body hums warm beneath her. He exhales- one of those long, full-bodied sighs that starts deep and ends in a soft breath through the nose.

Content. Completely, blissfully content.

She closes her eyes and just listens.

At first, his heartbeat is fast. Not thundering. But steady. Charged. It slows as the minutes stretch out. As her body relaxes into his. As the television drones on about some surreal 1960s space-time dilemma, neither of them is following.

The show laughs at its own joke.

Neither of them reacts.

She curls her legs up beneath her, one knee tucking behind his. She shifts, and without speaking, he adjusts- arms widening, knees spreading slightly, until she’s no longer just leaning on him, but curled in. Half in his lap. Head on his chest. Her arm across his middle. His hand rubs slow circles into her upper arm.

The sound in the room is almost nothing.

Just the flicker of the television. The occasional creak of the couch. The soft rustle of clothes as they breathe, settle, breathe again.

He dips his head. Rests his chin gently on the crown of hers.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just closes her eyes. Not because she’s tired.

But because this is the closest she’s been to peace in days.

And she needs- needs, to be held like this for just a little while longer.

The silence doesn’t end. It evolves.

Still weighty, still fragile- but now it feels less like a dam holding back pain, and more like velvet draped around something precious. Something they don’t want to break by speaking too soon.

She lifts a hand slowly, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. It slips free. She does it again, more deliberately this time, her knuckles trailing his cheek.

His eyes flutter closed at the second touch.

And he leans into it. Unthinking. Unafraid.

Like a cat soaking up sun on a windowsill.

She smiles faintly, but her chest aches. Like something inside her is caving in with every gentle act she’s never gotten to give like this before.

His hand finds hers. Fingers tangle. Then, slowly, he lifts it- presses his lips to her knuckles. One kiss. Then another. Then another. Each one slow, reverent. Like he’s cataloging her.

Like he’s afraid he’ll forget the shape of her if he doesn’t kiss every part he can reach.

She watches his mouth move over her hand, and her breath stutters. Something shifts in her. Not lust. Not longing. Something deeper. Like surrender. Like a quiet, devastating, I’d do anything for you, and you don’t even know.

He murmurs, low, barely audible:

“You’re really something special, you know that?”

She doesn’t respond. Just lowers her forehead to his. Lets her eyes close. Their breath mingles. Their skin warms in shared quiet. His thumb traces the back of her hand where it still rests inside his.

And then- he cradles it to his cheek. Presses in.

She lets him.

And that says everything.

He shifts a little- only enough to look at her properly. There’s no mischief in his eyes now. No teasing smirk. No sarcasm to deflect the weight.

Just Eddie.

The real one. The man under all the armor.

“Hey…”

She looks up at him, eyebrows lifting just slightly in question.

“I’ve been thinking about what to say to you all night, and it’s still gonna come out stupid, but… thank you.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but he shakes his head- cutting her off gently, almost like he can’t afford to let her brush this off with something graceful.

“No, I mean it.”

His eyes search hers, desperate for her to understand.

“Not just for getting me through the tests and all that crap. But… you saw me.”

A pause. His voice breaks on the edges of that word.

“First person besides my uncle who ever really did.”

His hand comes up- runs through his hair, then down to the back of his neck, a nervous habit. His gaze drops.

“Everyone else just… gave up. Or didn’t bother to look. You did.”

And she- she can’t swallow around the lump in her throat.

Her eyes shine.

“I couldn’t look away,” she whispers.

He looks at her again then. And something shifts in him. Like he’s steadying under her gaze. Like he believes her.

His hand lifts.

He touches her face- not to initiate anything more. Just to hold her there.

Thumb sweeping softly under her eye.

Her cheek leans into it like instinct.

Like maybe she was waiting for this moment all night, too.

Neither of them speaks.

They don’t need to.

She’s still cradling his cheek with her hand. He’s still holding it there like a tether. And in that small, perfect stillness- he shifts.

Leans in.

His lips brush her forehead first. A silent benediction.

Then her temple. Lingering. Like a promise.

Then, finally, her jaw. A warm inhale before the kiss he truly wants.

Her breath catches.

She doesn’t chase his mouth. Doesn’t rush it. Instead, her hands find the hem of his shirt. Slipping underneath- not to pull it off, not yet. Just to touch. Just to feel.

His skin is warm. Real. Alive. And she needs that- needs to ground herself in it. To be certain this isn’t a dream woven out of all her wanting.

He exhales like her touch steadies him, too.

When their mouths meet, it’s slow. No urgency. No teeth. Just a gentle press. A shared breath. A kiss like the turning of a page. Like the first line of something new.

They savor it.

Her hand moves to his chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat. His arms settle around her waist. Not pulling. Just holding.

When she pulls back, it’s only to stand.

She doesn’t say anything. Just extends her hand to him, open and quiet.

He looks up at her- eyes soft, a little reverent. Like he’s not sure what he did to be offered this moment, but he’ll spend forever deserving it.

He takes her hand.

Stands with her.

Their fingers stay laced.

And they don’t let go- not even as they step into the hallway, not even when the bedroom door appears before them like it had been waiting all along.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind them.

Neither says a word.

She turns to face him, lit only by the dim lamp on the nightstand. Warm. Golden. Like a halo thrown sideways across the sheets. Eddie watches her. Just watches- as if committing her to memory. Not just her body, but her. All the weight she carries. All the light she tries to hide.

He reaches for her.

Not rough. Not urgent. Just a hand at her hip, thumb brushing a slow arc, like he’s learning the shape of trust.

She leans in first. He meets her halfway.

Their mouths find each other again, but this time it’s different- not tentative, not exploratory. It's like a match lit with trembling fingers. Fragile, but blinding. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask. It pleads.

He breaks away first, panting softly, eyes dark with need- but softer than she’s ever seen.

And then-

His hands go to the buttons of her blouse.

One by one.

Slow.

Like every button is a question he’s scared she’ll say no to. Like each one is a prayer on his fingertips. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. Just looks at her like he’s opening the gates of heaven and doesn’t know if he’s allowed inside.

By the time the fabric slips from her shoulders, he’s not touching her yet. Just looking. Reverent.

“You’re so-” He swallows hard. Starts over. “You ruin me, y’know that?”

Her hands find his vest in response, pushing it off, revealing more skin inch by inch. She leans in, pressing her mouth to the curve between his collarbone and shoulder. Just to feel him shudder.

Her clothes melt away slowly after that. Her skirt peeled down with his knuckles grazing her thighs like an apology and a promise all at once.

He settles over her- never rushing, never assuming.

Her hands frame his face. Fingers in his hair, thumbs at his cheekbones. The look in his eyes conveying his need.

The bed welcomes them like a secret kept too long. Soft sheets. Stifled breaths. Their shadows tangled on the wall.

Eddie doesn’t rush. Doesn’t even breathe hard. He just kneels above her for a second, looking down like he can’t quite believe this is real. His fingers trail along the edge of her bra, reverent, brushing up the slope of her arm as if mapping it for the first time.

Then he shucks off his shirt, over his head and down his arms in one fluid movement. His hair falls back into his face, curls clinging to his jaw and shoulders. She watches the flex and ripple of his stomach as he tosses the shirt aside- watches his hands move to his belt with slow, deliberate intent.

The metal buckle clinks open. The leather whispering free.

Her breath stutters.

He sees it.

A crooked smirk ghosts across his lips- faint, but warm. Not teasing. Just fond.

He unbuttons his jeans. Zipper drawn down in a slow rasp. Her eyes drop, and he watches her watch him. His cock straining the fabric of his boxers, twitching once under her gaze.

“Go on,” he murmurs, voice thick as whiskey. “Look all you want.”

She does.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and peels the denim and boxers down in one slow motion, baring himself completely. And god, he’s already hard for her. Red and flushed and heavy, thick and girthy. Her mouth parts without thinking.

Eddie chuckles- low, soft, wrecked. He leans down, slotting his hips between her thighs, bare skin on bare skin now, every inch of him trembling with restraint.

“I’ve thought about this today,” he whispers against her jaw. “More times than I’m proud of.”

She breathes his name like a secret. Her legs part wider.

He reaches between them- his knuckles brushing her inner thigh, and wraps a hand around himself, guiding the thick head of his cock to her entrance. He runs the tip through her slick folds once. Twice. Just enough to make them both feel it, the heat, the ache, the inevitability.

Her back arches. Her breath catches.

He pauses.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, lips against her cheek. “Tell me you want this.”

“I do,” she breathes. No hesitation. “I always have.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes in- slow and steady.

The stretch burns in the best way. Her hands find his back, nails sinking into muscle as inch by inch he fills her, deeper than anyone else ever has. He keeps his forehead pressed to hers the entire time. His eyes flutter shut when he bottoms out, buried to the hilt inside her, chest rising in a shuddered breath like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being in her.

“Jesus,” he pants. “You’re- fuck, you’re perfect.”

She’s gasping, clutching him closer, thighs wrapped around his hips.

They don’t move at first.

They just feel.

Him, inside her.

Her, taking him completely.

Then slowly- reverently, he pulls back, just an inch, and rocks forward again. A rhythm that starts with care but deepens with every thrust, building something unspoken in the cradle of their bodies.

Something breaking.

Something blooming.

That’s not just hunger.

That’s home.

He moves like worship. Like he’s touching the parts of her no one’s ever seen. His name falls from her lips like it belongs there. Like it always has.

Every thrust is deliberate. Measured. Every breath stolen between them is a vow.

And through it all, that fire never dies.

The kind that doesn’t burn up quick- it lingers. Warm. Eternal.

Because this isn’t just sex.

This is the breaking point.

Where they both fall and land in each other.

Eddie groans into the hollow of her throat, his voice ragged, half-muffled by skin, by want, by the unshakable need to be closer. His hands, those calloused, clever hands, slide beneath the arch of her back, dragging her up into him, chest to chest, hips to hips- no space left, not even for breath.

Her nails are scoring his shoulders now, anchoring him like she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she lets go. And maybe he would. Because this- her, is the only real thing in the universe right now.

The rhythm begins again. Deeper now. Sharper. No more hesitance. No more restraint. Each thrust finds its mark with unerring precision, his hips rolling against her in long, deliberate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her from the inside.

“God, you feel…” he breathes, voice cracking, forehead pressed to hers. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Like you were made for me.”

She moans, not words exactly- just a sound pulled from the pit of her belly, raw and unfiltered. Her thighs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the curve of his ass to pull him impossibly deeper.

He groans, sharp and desperate. “You want it harder?” he asks, voice shaking. “Tell me. Tell me what you need.”

“You,” she gasps. “More of you. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He can’t.

His thrusts pick up, rougher now, more urgent- hips snapping forward, the slap of skin-on-skin punctuated by stifled whimpers and shaky gasps. Her body rocks with the force of him, head thrown back into the pillows, hair an auburn halo gone wild around her.

He watches her come apart beneath him- flushed, undone, radiant. One hand braces beside her head while the other slips down, fingers trailing between their bodies to find where they’re joined. He draws lazy, tight circles over her clit with the pad of his thumb, not stopping even when she cries out, trembling under the weight of it.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers hoarsely, mouth at her ear. “Let me feel you. Let go for me. Wanna feel you fall apart while I’m inside you.”

And god… she does.

She shatters with a cry so sharp it lances through his spine. Her body clamps down around him, tight and pulsing, wringing a choked, desperate sound from his throat as he grits his teeth and tries to hold on.

But it’s no use.

Her orgasm pulls him under like an undertow, drags him to the edge of himself. His rhythm stutters. He buries himself deep one final time, hips jerking as he spills into her with a broken moan… her name on his lips like a prayer.

They cling to each other in the aftermath.

Breathless. Boneless.

Limbs tangled like vines, their skin slick and trembling with aftershocks.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even roll off. Just stays there, buried in the heat of her, his cheek against her shoulder, heart pounding like war drums against her chest.

For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hiss of air between their lips. His breathing starts to slow. So does hers. Every rise and fall of their chests begins to sync- like their bodies are still trying to speak even after the moaning stops.

Finally, with a groan somewhere between exhaustion and reluctant movement, Eddie shifts just enough to slide onto his side, keeping her close. Their legs remain tangled, his arm still draped across her waist, holding her to him like she might vanish otherwise.

She brushes damp curls off his forehead. He blinks at her, soft, doe-eyed and flushed, wearing that dazed, spent little grin that looks too crooked to be holy but feels like grace anyway.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rasped and worn thin, but still laced with a bit of his usual mischief. “You still alive in there, sweetheart? Or did I kill you a little?”

She hums. “Only a little. Think I might haunt you now.”

“Oh no,” he says, mock grave, trailing lazy fingers up and down her back. “A hot ghost who knows all my weaknesses. My one true downfall.”

She smirks against his skin. “Guess you shouldn’t have made it so good.”

He snorts. Presses a kiss to her temple. Doesn’t argue.

Silence falls again, but it’s different this time. Quieter. Not empty- just full in a different way. The kind of silence that feels like soft sheets and shared warmth and not needing to fill the space with anything other than presence.

He exhales slow, his fingers now tracing circles just under the curve of her ribs. “That was…” He trails off, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, searching for the word. Doesn’t find it.

She doesn’t either. Doesn’t need to.

Her head rests against his chest, her hand over his heart. She feels the steady thud of it, less frantic now but still heavy. Still there. Like an anchor under her palm.

Outside the window, the city moves. Tires hum along wet pavement. A siren wails somewhere far off. But in here… It’s just them.

Close. Warm. Quiet.

And completely undone.

They don’t move for a long time. Just lie there in the soft, glimmering stillness of what they’ve just shared- like the whole world’s holding its breath for them.

Eddie’s breath evens out first. He brushes a kiss to her shoulder, then her cheek. His arms lazily loop around her middle, and when she shifts to her side, he follows without hesitation, pressing close like it’s instinct. One leg between hers. Chest to her back. Their bodies molded perfectly like they were always meant to be.

His voice comes low, ragged from use. “You okay?”

She nods, but doesn’t speak.

Fingers draw lazy shapes against the curve of her stomach. He’s content- ridiculously so. Buzzing on something bigger than the high. Like love’s a drug, and he’s finally gone and overdosed, smiling like a fool about it.

Then- her voice. Soft, but intentional.

“I hope you have a good life, Eddie.” She swallows. “Now that you’ve graduated. You made it. I’m proud of you.”

His brow furrows against the nape of her neck. “Uh... thanks?”

“I’ll miss you,” she adds quietly, like she doesn’t want him to hear the break in her voice.

Now he pulls back. Just a little. Enough to look down at her, blinking like he didn’t just hear what he thinks he heard.

“Wait- what do you mean, ‘good life’ and ‘you’ll miss me’?” His brows twitch up. “Without you?” A moment passes. “Are you breaking up with me?”

The silence that follows is deafening. The quiet kind that says yes before she can.

She rolls onto her back, eyes glossy, voice cracking just the tiniest bit. “You graduated, Eddie. You’re free. You don’t need me anymore. I don’t want to be the reason you stay. I don’t want to hold you back.”

He just stares. One moment. Two.

And then-

He laughs.

A quick, startled bark that’s too loud for how tender the moment was just seconds ago. But it’s not cruel. It’s incredulous. It’s Eddie Munson losing his damn mind at the love of his life saying the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“Oh my God, Donna,” he chokes out, grinning in disbelief. “You really think I’d let you go that easy?”

She looks startled- wide-eyed and trembling, all the soft edges she keeps so well-guarded now stripped bare.

He reaches for her hand and pulls it to his chest, presses it flat over his heart.

“This?” he whispers. “This is beating because of you. I passed because of you. I stayed sane because of you. I fought for myself because of you. You’re not the reason I’d stay behind.” His thumb brushes her cheek. “You’re the reason I wanna move forward.”

She opens her mouth to speak- but nothing comes. She’s breathless. Reeling.

Eddie just keeps going, because now that he’s started, he can’t stop. He won’t.

“I got a van with room for two. Or maybe we figure out some in-between thing. But I’m not going anywhere you’re not.”

He leans in, kisses her- soft and sure. His voice dips a little, casual again, cocky. “Besides, pretty sure you need a new last name now anyway.”

Her breath catches.

“You know,” he says, eyes dancing. “Since you’re not Mrs. O’Donnell anymore. And Bruce is a dick. And also? I’m not thrilled about anyone calling you that when you’re my girl now.”

“Eddie-”

He grins. “How’s ‘Mrs. Donna Munson’ sound?”

She laughs. Shoves him gently in the chest. Her face is flushed, and her voice cracks on a squeaky, “Slow down, Jesus!”

He kisses her again. And again. And again.

“Okay,” he murmurs between pecks. “I’ll slow down. Eventually. Just figured I’d stake my claim before some boring-ass guy from the Biology department gets any ideas.”

“Eddie.”

“What?” He grins. “You know I can be patient.”

Then he cups her cheek, gaze turning warm and unshakably sincere.

“But I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever.”

She stares up at him- blinking, lips parted, completely undone by the depth in his voice, the earnest warmth in his eyes. He’s still got his hand on her cheek, thumb stroking in that steady rhythm like he’s grounding her with each pass.

“You mean that?” she finally whispers, voice tight and raw and small.

Eddie’s brows draw together. “Of course I mean it.”

Her throat bobs with a swallow. She tries to speak again, but her lips tremble. Her composure fractures like glass under pressure- quiet and delicate, but catastrophic all the same. She turns her face into his hand, hiding in it like a child might hide in a blanket.

“I didn’t think you'd want me,” she admits, voice muffled but heartbreaking. “Not once you had better options. Not once you didn’t need a tutor. Or a place to crash. Or… someone to vent to when everything sucked.”

Eddie’s smile vanishes, his expression sobering with the kind of clarity that only comes after a storm. He sits up a little, leaning over her, not to loom- but to wrap himself around her again. Arms, legs, chest, voice. All of it.

“Donna.” It’s almost a whisper, almost a plea. “You think I’ve been fucking you all this time because you were convenient?”

Her breath stutters. She starts shaking her head, but he keeps going.

“You think I begged you for a second chance at school, at life, because I wanted easy?”

A pause.

“I’ve loved you since you made me read that dumb Hemingway story and argued with me for three hours about it. I’ve loved you since you told me I had potential like it was a fact… not a wish.”

He leans in, resting his forehead to hers.

“I love you when you’re bossy. I love you when you’re quiet. I love you when you roll your eyes at my jokes and then laugh five seconds later anyway.”

Her eyes brim with tears. One slips down, carving a path through the blush blooming across her cheek.

“I thought I was holding you back,” she says, breathless.

“You were pulling me forward,” he corrects gently. “Always.”

Another sob escapes her- this one soft, breathy, and tangled in a laugh. She covers her face with her hands, but Eddie pulls them down, kisses her knuckles, the heels of her palms, her cheeks.

“I love you too,” she says suddenly, like it explodes out of her. Like she has to say it before she chokes on it. “I love you so goddamn much, Eddie, it terrifies me.”

He grins like a man who’s just seen God- and she’s got black nail polish and a killer smile and once shoved a student’s essay into his chest for not using MLA format.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for weeks,” he breathes, then presses his forehead to her collarbone.

“Say it again,” he mumbles against her skin. “Please.”

She laughs, hiccuping on her tears. “I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

He kisses her shoulder. Her neck. Her lips.

“Again.”

“I love you, Eddie Munson.”

​​His breath hitches at the words, like they're something sacred. Like he's been starving for them. He pulls back just enough to look at her - really look at her - his dark eyes wide and shining.

Fuck. She means it. She really means it.

His fingers tremble slightly as they brush a tear from her cheek. "Say it like you mean it," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

"Like I mean it?" She arches an eyebrow, that familiar fire sparking behind her tears. Then she grabs his face with both hands, pulling him close until their noses brush. "I. Love. You. Eddie Munson. Even when you're being an insufferable little shit."

He barks out a laugh, the sound bright and startled in the quiet room. "That's my girl," he grins, before capturing her lips in a kiss that tastes like salt and cabernet and home.

When they finally break apart, he keeps his forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in. "So... about that van," he murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder.

She groans, swatting at his chest. "We are not living in your van, Munson."

"Not permanently!" He holds up his hands in surrender, grinning. "Just until we find someplace better. Someplace with... I dunno, walls. Running water. Maybe even a bed that's not a mattress in the back of a '77 GMC. We can hit the road, see the world!"

She rolls her eyes, but can't quite hide her smile. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agrees easily, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "But I'm yours."

The words settle between them, warm and sure. Outside, the last golden light of sunset fades into twilight, painting the room in soft blues and purples. The takeout containers sit forgotten on the table in the dining room, the wine bottle nearly empty.

Eddie stretches out beside her, pulling her close until her back is pressed against his chest again. His lips find the sensitive spot behind her ear as his arms tighten around her waist. "So," he murmurs, breath warm against her skin. "Where should we go from here, Mrs. Munson?"

She rolls her eyes, but turns in his arms to face him, her expression soft but determined. "Forward," she says simply.

He sits up and looms over her, leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of her, caging her in. "So... what do I get for finally graduating?"

Her eyebrow arched. "A diploma?"

Eddie laughed, warm and rough, before dipping his head to brush his lips against her ear. "I was thinking something a little more... hands-on."

Donna shivered. Then, with a sharp tug on the back of his neck, she pulled him the rest of the way down until their lips met.

Epilogue

The room is quiet in that sacred way mornings sometimes are- just the soft rustle of sheets and the faint hum of the world waking up beyond the window. Pale golden light seeps in through the curtains, brushing over tangled limbs and tousled hair, the kind of glow that turns skin into poetry.

They’re wrapped around each other in the aftermath- bare and boneless, still warm from the hours that came before. His arm is slung low around her hips, hand splayed possessively over her stomach like he’s afraid she might slip away in her sleep. But she doesn’t. She’s right there, curled into his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over the tattoos on his sternum.

Outside, a bird chirps. Somewhere down the street, a car starts. Life resumes.

But here, in this bed, time is kind.

Donna blinks up at the ceiling, lashes heavy with sleep, her heart just full- so full it aches in the sweetest way. She thinks of all they’ve been through. The mess, the joy, the arguments and makeup kisses, the long nights and longer mornings. She thinks of Eddie’s stupid van, his louder-than-life laugh, his ridiculous dreams, and the way he looks at her like she’s the last miracle on Earth.

And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel like something is ending.

Maybe this isn’t the end, she thinks, her lips curving faintly. Maybe it’s just the beginning.

Eddie shifts beside her, half-asleep, his voice rough and slurred from dreams. “Hey…” He nuzzles her neck, lashes fluttering. “What if I… I dunno… went to community college?”

She turns her head, surprised and smiling. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He exhales, lazy and slow. “Think you’d let me write about you again?”

Her throat tightens with something tender. She kisses his temple, brushes a hand through his hair. “Only if you keep getting A’s.”

He huffs a sleepy laugh. “Guess I better start studying.”

And then he’s out again, drifting back into slumber with a content little smile on his lips, the kind she’s seen only a handful of times- the one that says I’m home.

Donna stays awake a little longer, listening to the soft cadence of his breathing, the sunrise spilling like honey across the sheets. And when she finally closes her eyes, she does so with peace in her chest and a promise wrapped around her heart:

This is just the beginning.

Student Body Follow-Up now available: Student Body: "Winter Break" or read on AO3 (*One Shot*) (NSFW)

💌 Author’s Note:

And there it is, babes. The end of “Student Body”. 😘

What started as a spicy little fantasy turned into something a bit deeper, a bit darker, and a whole lot more tender than I ever expected. Eddie came in all cocky smirks and bad ideas, and somehow walked out the other side with a diploma in one hand and a heart in the other. And Donna? She broke the rules, but maybe she saved herself, too.

If you made it this far, thank you. Truly. For riding out the tension, the taboo, the chaos, and the clingy aftercare. I hope this story gave you butterflies, goosebumps, and maybe even a guilty little grin you’ll carry for a while.

If you loved it, scream about it. Tell a friend. Leave a comment. Light a candle. Rewatch Season 4 with this version of Eddie whispering filthy things in your ear. You deserve it.

And hey… don’t be a stranger. There’s always more Eddie Munson to come.

With all my love,

~Pinkie 💋

Duke the Cat

I self indulgently added my cat to the story cause he's my baby! He's actually the sweetest little guy you'll ever meet. 😍

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna Masterlist

[frogsmulder]

34 & 36 msr

The Christmas Ruse

In order to avoid being set up with one of her mum's friends' sons, Scully uses Mulder's help to create a fake relationship. But Mulder doesn't know; about 3.4k words; rated t; tagging @today-in-fic

Read on ao3

Deep in the basement of the J Edgar Hoover building, December 23rd, Scully is about to leave the office. Winter coat pulled off the rack, one arm through and then the other, her heels clip towards the door when she stops in her tracks. Hesitating for a brief moment, she considers if she is really about to do this, but the alternative seems far more agonising. Lip caught between her teeth, she turns around to face Mulder, still at his desk. He looks up from the work he is still buried in despite the late hour: everyone else in the building has gone home, save for the janitor and herself. His hair is ruffled, his tie loose and a frown is perfectly sculpted across his brow. She could do worse as friends go. 

“Mulder…”

“Hmm?”

“Are you free tomorrow? About eight?”

He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head in mock consideration. “That's gonna be a little tough for me: I've got a file on a green, furry cryptid here that the higher-ups want caught before he steals all the joy out of Christmas.”

She can't help but roll her eyes. “I'll take that as a yes.”

“Depends: why d’you ask?” He leans forward again, hands clasped together on the desk in front of him, attentive, his whole gaze trained on her. 

“I–” she licks her lip– “I'll pick you up at seven.”

“Ooh a surprise!” he chuckles. “I like surprises. But if it's not a trip to Whoville, I'll be disappointed.”

She laughs, “happy holidays, Mulder,” as she walks out the door.

...

Her mind is blank, clear of any form of thought as the elevator dings, opening to the fourth floor of Hegal Place, Alexandria. She steps forward, automatic pilot steering her to the end of the corridor. If she starts thinking now, everything will cascade into a torrent of worry, and there will be no coming back. Checking her watch, she sees she is earlier than she had anticipated. She raises her knuckles to the wood. And then her hand drops without a sound. What if she is too early? What if she's interrupting him? Turning on her heel she walks back to wait in the car. But that is ridiculous. She should just knock and wait inside if he isn't ready. Yet upon reaching his door, she feels that magnetic repulsion again. Again she turns away. 

This time it isn't her own doubt that stops her but the sound of the door opening behind her. Mulder's head pops out. 

“Hey, Scully!” He grins. “You gonna pace around outside for the next twenty minutes or are you gonna let me invite you in?”

She opens her mouth to say something when he widens the door and motions for her to get moving. His casual nature bemuses her. He saunters in ahead, bare-chested, hair slightly damp, just a pair of jeans, drawing her eyes down to how well they hang on his hips and fit his ass. 

“You didn't give me a dress code: is this alright?” He picks up a black t-shirt and a navy sweater, spinning around to hold them against his chest like a professional designer. 

She smirks, “yeah, that'll do nicely.”

He grins again as he wriggles into the garments. A moment of confusion passes his features before he looks around and bends over to look under the coffee table. Retrieving a bottle of aftershave, he sprays some on, and then looks satisfied with his appearance. Scully certainly is. A waft of the scent captivates her as he puts the bottle back on the table. 

“Good to go?”

He snaps her from her thoughtless mind “Oh, uh, yeah.”

The drive is pleasant enough. Crisp frosted scenery flies by while seasonal songs float from the car stereo. In the corner of her eye, she notices Mulder quietly humming and tapping along to the music, having no right to be as endearing as he is. She smiles, and focuses on the road ahead. 

“So, I am allowed to ask where we are going now, or is it still a surprise?”

“We are going for a Scully Christmas eve dinner. It's, uh, a sort of tradition we have each year: close family get together to share time before the big day tomorrow–before all the aunts come over and fuss over how Christmas should be done properly in the traditional Irish Catholic way.” She laughs a little, remembering how Aunt Marie had to be kicked out of the kitchen by her mother. “And my mom invited you.”

Mulder whistles. “Wow, that's a high honour indeed. I feel bad now coming empty handed.”

“Don't worry, there's a bottle of red on the backseat from both of us.”

“Both of us? Will your mother have something to be suspicious about?” He grins and waggles his eyebrows. 

“It's nothing like that,” she laughs. “She's just been asking after you a lot lately. I think she's secretly trying to adopt you.”

“Well, I couldn't think of a better person to be adopted by than Mrs Scully.”

Scully bites her lip, considering whether to tell him the truth, but decides it isn't worth it. Her mom has already apologised to Jack: he won't be there, and that's the main thing. She grips the steering wheel a little tighter. 

They pull up to the house and she sees Bill’s family wagon is already in the driveway and she curses quietly under her breath, she had hoped to settle in before he showed up. 

She gets out of the car and picks up the bottle of wine. Mulder is waiting for her on the other side, arm curled in invitation. She links her own arm through and shakes her head at how well he's playing the role he doesn't even know he's got. At the top of the path, she nervously opens the door, preparing herself for the evening ahead. The irony is, she would rather be having dinner with just Mulder, but then again she's never managed to be the traditional sort. 

“Hi Mom, Bill, we're here!”

“We're in the kitchen sweetie!” her mother calls back. 

Mulder groans and bends down to whisper harshly in her ear, “You never said Bill Jr was here.”

“I said close family.”

“I think I left my diplomacy mask in the trunk, let me go get it.”

She chuckles and tugs him along to the kitchen. 

She first presents her mother with the wine and receives a big hug in return before Maggie sees who she has brought with her. 

“Oh Fox! How wonderful to see you.” She cups his face and reaches up to kiss his cheek, before standing back, holding by the arms and admiring him. “Although I can't say I'm surprised; Dana has been talking about you a lot lately.”

“Oh really?” Mulder turns teasingly to Scully with his eyebrows raised. 

Maggie laughs, “Yes, I was starting to think she was making the whole thing–”

“Mom!” Scully interrupts, blushing bright red. 

“Sorry, Dana,” She chuckles and releases Mulder back to her. “Would you like some prosecco, the two of you?”

Scully eyes Bill standing a few steps behind their mother, watching Mulder warily. 

“That sounds wonderful, Mrs Scully.”

“Oh, Maggie, please; you're part of the family, Fox.”

“That's very kind of you, Maggie.”

She walks up to him and opens her arms as a peace offering. “Hey Bill, long time no see. Your boat didn't get stuck in traffic this time then?”

He finally relaxes and accepts her hug

“How's my little sister doing?”

“I'm good,” she sighs. “Where are Tara and the kids?”

“She's just giving them a bath before they go to bed.” He steps back and gives her a smile. “Don't worry, they'll be down in time to say good night to their favourite aunt.” 

She smiles to hide the pain of the hidden dig; the absence of Melissa felt the most this time of year. 

“Mom was telling me you brought a date.” He glances back over to Mulder. “Seriously? Him?”

She sighs, knowing this was an eventuality. “I don't want to do this now, Bill, it's Christmas. Can we just leave it alone?”

He steps forward, insistent. “But after all he's done to you?”

“Bill, I won't say it again. He's been there for me and supported me despite what you think.” She looks over to Mulder too, and how easily he talks to her mom. Her mother is right, he is a part of this family even if it's not in the way she thinks. “I don't want any trouble this evening, Bill, please.”

He nods tersely, the matter still clearly bothering him. She decides to leave it and joins Mulder, wrapping herself around his arm and taking the flute of bubbling alcohol gratefully. Despite trying to mask it, Mulder senses her tension and smoothly twines his fingers with hers, grounding her the way no-one else has ever has. 

...

The rest of the evening flows relatively effortlessly as family gatherings go. Matthew comes bounding down the stairs followed shortly by Tara and a baby already sleepy-eyed resting on her shoulder. Matthew runs up to his grandma and jumps onto her lap in the armchair. 

“Are you all clean and ready for bed now?” Maggie coos. 

He shakes his head. “I not tired. Not need bed.” And then he points a finger across the room. “Funny man?”

From the corner of her eye, Scully can see Mulder chuckle next to her as he slowly gets up to introduce himself. 

“Hi, Dana!” Tara offers a wave with one hand, gently bouncing the baby “Sorry I didn't get to say hi earlier I had my hands full.”

“Sure looks that way,” Scully laughs. She gets up to stroke the fuzzy hair of her newest nephew and give him a kiss on his crown. “He's grown so much already,” She marvels. “Oh, this is Mulder by the way–” she gestures over to where Mulder is ruffling Matthews hair– “Mulder, the only other woman besides mom that's been able to keep my brother in check.”

“I see we are going to get along,” Mulder chuckles. 

“Oh he's not that bad really.” Tara looks fondly over at her husband trying to gently extract their son from Maggie’s arms, much to the grumpy protests of Matthew. “He's really a teddy bear underneath it all.”

“Just don't let my crewmen hear about it.”

“No, Daddy, no! Me not tired!”

Bill gruffs and hoists Matthew up, barely holding on to him as arms and legs flail. 

“Can I?” Mulder asks cautiously and Bill gives him a contemptuous look as Scully raises an incredulous eyebrow. 

“You know what day it is today, Matthew?”

The boy rolls his eyes. “Kissmas eve.”

Mulder nods seriously. “And what happens on Christmas eve?”

“Santa comes.”

“But you know Santa only comes if you are asleep. He is very shy.” He leans on conspiratorially to whisper in the boys ear. “He can't bring your presents if you're awake.”

“But... But… I good boy,” he pouts. 

Mulder smiles. “You have to be good all year round, including Christmas eve. And good boys go to bed when their mommy asks them to.”

Matthew considers this for a moment. “You good boy?”

“Yes,” Mulder laughs. “But the question is, are you?”

Matthew nods and clings to his father. “Bed time then Santa?”

“That's right,” Bill chimes in. “Come on, let's get you to bed.” 

He gets up the stairs with little fuss. Over his shoulder a tired child yawns. “Bye bye, aunty Dana!” he says. “Bye bye, funny man!”

On his way past, Tara mouths thank you to Mulder, who waves it off as if it was no big thing. Scully looks at him, mouth hanging open, both her shock and curiosity showing through. She had watched the whole thing unfold in front of her as if it was the most natural thing in the world to him. How? She wonders, while a quieter voice deeper inside whispers dangerous day-dreams. She fights to keep it tamped down, knowing its impossibility; its only real ability to hurt her in the future. 

Maggie pats Mulder's arm as she moves through to the kitchen, pausing to add, “You'll make a great father one day, Fox.”

A strange sting of jealousy sings with that chorus at her mother's words. Scully shakes it off. “Mulder,” she smiles with awe. “How did you know that would work?”

He shrugs. “I guess those hostage negotiation classes paid off.”

She laughs but doesn't let the matter slide. “No, really?”

“I used to encourage my sister to bed the same way. For some reason she listened to me.” He gets a wistful look in his eye. “But there was that one time we conspired to stay up to catch Santa together. Well, our father wasn't very pleased.”

...

Later, sat around the dinner table, Scully edges closer to Mulder, conscious to keep the appearance of the happy couple up. Part of her is anxious that Mulder will become suspicious of her behaviour, question her and force her to reveal her ruse. The other part wars with herself about how easy and natural it is to act like she loves him. She fidgets with the hem of her blouse under the table, straightening herself out as her mother passes out portions of homemade cottage pie. The smell of it takes her back to her childhood when she and her siblings used to fight over who got the leftovers. She remembers Missy taking putty on her and sneaking her some to not make the others jealous. 

“So,” Tara chirps brightly, bringing Scully out of her reverie. “How do you and Mulder know each other?”

She opens her mouth but no words come out, the inevitable question catching her off guard. “Um… We work together… he's my– we're– he's my partner.” She shields her gaze from Bill’s stern stare and catches Mulder's amused smirk. Her cheeks start to burn and she is sure everyone can see her blush. 

“Ahhh.” Tara gives her a knowing smile. “And how long has that been going on for?”

“It's, uh–

“Relatively new,” Mulder fills in for her. Surprised, Scully whips her head to stare at him. 

“Well, I'm glad for you Dana, you look happier than I've seen you in a while. And who knows maybe you'll even get to start a family of your own: he seems great with kids.”

Her mother jumps in before she can reply, sensing her unease, knowing her desires for motherhood will only ever remain as that. “Come now, there's no need for an interrogation,” she jokes light heartedly. 

Scully finally looks to Mulder with a smile and says quietly, “Yeah, he is.”

The blush on his cheeks warms her heart and she licks her lips. Maybe it could be this easy to love him. 

Her mother raises “A toast to this Christmas, to family.”

“And to Mulder and Dana,” Tara adds. 

“Bill,” Maggie smiles. “Will you do the honours?”

Bill nods and clasps his hands together leading everyone into grace with a bowed head and closed eyes. “Bless this food and the hands that prepared it–”

Under the table Scully feels Mulder shift, his hand reaching out to her, fingers walking along her lap to find her hand. She turns it over, allowing him to lace his fingers through hers. She breaks her prayer to look at him, confused but not unpleasantly surprised. With everyone keeping vigil, he smiles softly, privately, as if they were the only two people to exist in this world. When Bill utters the words “Amen,” Mulder squeezes her hand before quickly letting go, moving his gaze elsewhere as conversation resumes.

...

After dinner, Scully, stays sitting at the table for a while, watching the swirling bubble in her flute rise to the top and burst. Tara helps her mother clear away and Mulder quietly excuses himself for some fresh air. She bites her lip, sensing his discomfort with the intimate family setting. She briefly wonders what Christmas eve at the Mulder household is like, before remembering last year he had invited to go ghostbusting. Maybe he would prefer to be there than here, suffocated in an environment he barely recognises. She was too selfish to consider how out of place he would feel, but she can’t deny that having him by her side the last few hours has been an immense source of strength for her. She is not sure she could give up his company even if she wanted to.

Bill’s chair makes a scraping sound against the hardwood floor as he gets up. She glances from her bubbling glance to see him follow Mulder’s direction to the porch. Discreetly, she follows him. Through the front door she can hear his muffled voice stern and gruff: “.... clear Dana likes you… respect her choice but… hurt her again…”

She’s heard enough to know exactly what Bill is saying and she curses him under her breath. Jaw clenched, she turns the handle of the door. “Bill–” she starts.

Bill throws his hands up defensively. “I was just leaving, Dana.” 

She watches as he innocently side steps her and returns to the dining room. Scully turns around again, fingers to her brow, massaging out the frown carved out there, not knowing where to begin apologising.

“How much of that did you hear?” Mulder winces, scratching the back of his neck.

She sighs dejectedly. “Only the important parts.”

He huffs half a laugh. “Only that much, huh?”

“I’m sorry, Mulder. Bill can be…”

“Overprotective?” he laughs again mirthlessly. “Yeah, well, as the older brother I get it: he just cares a lot about you. I only wish that didn’t mean hating me in the process.”

She places a comforting hand on his bicep, pleading silently that he accept her forgiveness for the sin he doesn't know she has committed. She searches his eyes for an answer but before she can find one, Tara walks up to the doorway, catching them.

“Aw don’t you two look cute under the mistletoe.”

“What?” Scully spins around defensively.

Mulder looks up and chuckles. Amidst the heat of the confrontation, she had forgotten the sprig of mistletoe tied to the porch awning. She slowly lifts her head, hoping it’s not still there, but the berries shine white against the green, inviting them to keep up tradition.

“Do you trust me, Scully?”

She looks at him, wide-eyed and hesitant. “Yes, but–”

Before she can finish the thought, Mulder is leaning in, warm hand pressed against her cheek, the other holding her steady at her hip. His lips meet hers as soft and as light as a feather touch, barely a whisper of the possibilities she now finds herself fantasising. All too soon, he draws back, leaving her bereft of his heat, his touch. His thumb still draws back and forth across her skin as she languidly opens her eyes again, seeing his smile in a new light. All the world goes quiet and numb save for the man standing in front of her, still holding on, still smiling. Conscious thought leaves her brain; her worries and doubts disseminated like dust on the wind. Old fortresses crumble and fall and she reaches up to brush her finger against his lips, testing this new reality she finds herself in. Lead by pure instinct she follows her finger and kisses against hers li him again, craving the feel of his lips brushing against hers like oxygen after seven years of holding her breath. Hesitantly, she deepens the kiss, exploring the taste of his lips, his tongue. When he reciprocates she sighs contentedly, floating towards heaven.

He pulls back and rests his forehead against hers. “Now are you gonna tell me why your whole family thinks we are dating?” he whispers just loud enough for her to hear. “Or do I have to ask them?”

“I–” she stutters over her words half in relief, half realising the ridiculousness of it all. She hides her face buried deep in his chest, laughing through, “I didn’t want mum to set me up with one of her friends' sons again.” 

“And I was the perfect lie?” he teases her with a shit-eating grin.

“As far as boyfriends go, I could do a lot worse.”

“So, it’s official–” he tilts her head back to look at him and brushes her hair from her face– “this is our first date.”

“Shut up, Mulder,” she laughs.

“Hey, Scully–” he gives her another chaste kiss. “Merry Christmas.”

She smiles against his lips. “Merry Christmas.”

[arson-duck]

Your Hand Grenade Heart

Chapter one - Killer First Impression

Authors note: Welp. I should be working on chapter 20... but... I guess I just wanted to see how this would do here? Maybe broaden the fics' reach and fan count? Plus, lots of creators post their work both on here and on ao3, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Lemme know what y'all think!! :D

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient. Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of a woman's devotion. List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest; list to a Tale of Love....

Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The air feels different here. Lighter almost, but that might be the weight lifting off my shoulders.

In all actuality it’s being whipped into a frenzy. The air that is, by the rapidly spinning blades of the United Kingdom’s Airbus. They cut through the early morning mist, churning the low hanging clouds into a twister over the tarmac, and snatching at whatever isn’t tied down to the small group of soldiers waiting at the foot of the loading ramp.

It’s frigid. Numbing compared to the southern balm I boarded the plane in, but it smells crisp and fresh and hurts my eyes a little as I breathe. Like a brain freeze. Like it’s washing the humidity of my worry away.

I borrow some of that chill for myself. Steeling my will as my eyes run over the gathered men, forcing any foolish relief out with a visible breath. For all I know, this team could be just like the others before them; narcissistic hot-heads commanded by an even more self-obsessed, power-hungry asshole. The captain didn’t seem the type when I first met him, but I’m not willing to let my guard down yet.

I pull my hood off my head, square my shoulders, and walk down the loading ramp. Aiming for a calm and collected first appearance, and only sort of succeeding. Secretly, I’m chanting the mantra: don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t fucking trip. over and over to myself. Hoping that it’ll keep me from falling flat on my face. Wouldn’t be surprised, with my luck.

Nerves have me over-correcting my stride, or maybe I fucking jinxed myself. Either way, I end up basically skipping into my new captain; a man of considerable height and girth, easily over six feet tall and packed with hale and hearty muscle. Intimidating, with an expression to match. I'm sure I would've bounced harmlessly off him like a pigeon ricocheting off a window, but I manage to avoid it. Saving us both the embarrassment just in time.

I fix my balance, pretending I don’t need the helping hand he automatically offers, through my heart clenches at the kind gesture. I allow myself a small smile, as a thank you, then switch back to my default stoney expression.

Casually– like I wasn’t just stumbling about like an idiot– I drop my duffle bag and settle into parade rest: boots planted a shoulder’s width apart, arms behind my back, chin jutted out just a bit too cockily. Daring my new teammates to laugh, and hoping it’d be enough to make up for my little… episode.

Way to make a first impression.

My self conscious gaze sweeps over the gathered officers quickly, gauging their reactions. There’s definitely amusement there, on all counts except one. The biggest of them, towering over even the captain.

Betraying the rest of my face, my eyes widen in fearful awe. He’s standing so still, at first I wonder if I’ve imagined him, but the man next to him jolts slightly as he glances over his shoulder. No doubt feeling the dark, looming presence behind him, even if he didn’t hear his approach.

The big one takes up so much space even the mist seems to avoid him, but his teammate couldn’t tell he was there until he happened to look right at him. Like he’s some sort of living shade

He’d just joined the line, blending in like he was always there, even if he sticks out like a giant, all black-clad thumb. Either he’s fashionably late, or he just couldn’t be bothered to care about my arrival. Which is more than I can say for myself.

The first thing I notice about him– besides his mouth-watering size– are his eyes. They’re dark brown, almost black from where I’m standing, and haunted. They pin me in place, like a pretty insect stuck permanently on display.

I barely suppress a shiver, suddenly feeling like I’m making eye contact with a hungry predator.

His eyes are the only part of his face I can see; the rest being covered by an ivory skull mask. I stupidly wonder if it’s real, the face plate of some poor victim's head he’d kept as a macabre trophy.

He looks like the type to do something like that.

Masks in the military aren’t unusual. Hell, I’m wearing one right now; my own face, mirrored after expressionless, perfectly obedient marble angels. For tactical reasons. But his is… something. Intimidating definitely. Purposefully cold, like the air surrounding us. Tactical for sure, like mine. His is just more striking.

He notices my blatant staring (duh, I’m not exactly hiding it), and his eyes narrow, something like a dare in his gaze. I stubbornly refuse to break eye contact and regret the decision almost immediately.

His dark eyes draw me in like twin black holes. Sucking the icy air out of my lungs, the sounds out of my ears, devouring the surrounding light. Until it’s just him and I in a silent tunnel of thickening shadow.

A muted voice repeats itself in my head, like the tap of pebbles on glass, slowly pulling me from my distraction. The light and sounds flicker back into existence, hitting me like an unexpected fist, which in and of itself is disorienting.

A bit dazed, my eyes meet Captain Price’s, shining under the brim of his boonie hat.

His eyes are sharp, missing nothing, and blue-gray. Surprisingly warm despite their blade-bright color. He grins, and the motion lifting his slightly graying muttonchops endearingly.

It’s impossible not to return his smile, though mine comes off a bit wobbly and unfocused.

“You with me, Sergeant?” His slightly accented tone is light, so I haven’t pissed him off at least. I think.

I apologize anyway. Fighting the urge to glance at the skull-faced stranger.

“Yes, captain. Apologies, captain.” I cringe at my unprofessional behavior and cover it up with a stiff salute. “Sergeant Ava Davis, reporting for duty, sir.”

The wind from the winding down propellers slaps a chunk of my hair across my face. We’re off to a fantastic start.

“As you were, soldier.” The captain smiles again, offering his hand in a polite greeting, which I accept.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Davis." He pumps my hand once, making me feel like he's telling the truth, "Come and meet the 141.”

He turns his back to lead the way, and I quickly pull my hair out of my mouth, spluttering a bit.

Price pretends not to notice.

I step to follow him, then double back for my bag before joining him again at the beginning of the surprisingly short line. There are only three soldiers, not counting the captain and myself.

I blush at the rekindled amusement on their faces, hoping the color on my cheeks will pass as the chill nipping at my skin.

The first to offer his hand is a burly fellow, standing an inch or so shorter than me. He's sure in his movements, gives off an air of effortless confidence that I recognize and feel comforted by.

I automatically move to accept his greeting, but falter when I notice he’s sporting a mohawk of all things. Wouldn’t be my first choice, but surprisingly, he pulls it off.

His bruise blue eyes glint under his daring hairstyle, lit from within by barely contained mirth, and I find myself attracted to him instantly. Not, like, sexual attraction, more like the kind between magnets when they’re pushed close together. Unshakable law of nature.

The feeling surprises me, that I would like him so quickly without even knowing him, but I can't seem to help it. So, I do. Even more so when his low, undeniably Scottish accent thickens the air between us.

“Awright, lass?" He grasps my half-extended hand firmly, "Th’ name’s Soap.”

He begins pumping my limp hand up and down excitedly, practically bouncing me off the tarmac with his brute strength. Out of self-preservation, I tense my muscles, halting the movement so abruptly he almost loses his grip. He doesn't react, other than moving to hold my rigid hand in both of his, using the added strength to continue the handshake, completely forgoing the usual military professionalism.

At least someone is happy I’m here.

The contact shocks me, jolting through my locked limbs like earthly tremors. My mask crumbles before it, and I can’t help my wide grin. He’s just too infectious. Incautious hope bubbles up in my chest like half flat soda, and I try to choke it back, but it’s difficult when he’s smiling at me like we’re already best friends.

“I’m swell, thanks for asking.” My answer is honest, if not a bit breathless. “I’d tell you my name too, but you already know it."

“Aye, I heard. It’s Ava, right? Or is ‘at yer callsign?” Still, he continues shaking my hand, but I find it hilarious, so I don’t stop him.

I shake my head, “Nope, haven’t got one.”

Not for lack of people trying.

“Aye then, we’ll jus’ have t’ fix that, won’t we?” He winks cheekily, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking.

“Alright Soap, let the woman breathe.” A playful reprimand cuts through the magnetically charged air.

I turn to acknowledge the new voice, finding a younger man glaring light heartedly at the mohawked Scottsman.

The next soldier is effortlessly composed. A subdued power held in his limbs, in the way he stands. He's just barely taller than me, only by a couple inches, but it looks like more with his cap on. The brim casts his big brown eyes in shadow, but does nothing at all to hide the spark of mischief there. He keeps his hat pinned with a hand on his crown, fighting the wind for it like it’s something precious.

It looks like any other hat to me, a faded navy-blue with a worn united kingdom's flag patch. It suits him though, compliments his deeper skin tone.

“Sergeant Garrick, but you can call me Gaz." He turns to face me, his only sort of serious expression melting into one of open friendliness as he introduces himself. "Everyone does."

Now that he's speaking directly to me, it's obvious he has an accent, too. Very obviously not Scottish like Soap’s, and not as rich as Price’s, but still pleasant. I suppose I'll have to get used to the accents, now that I'm stuck here. For however long that may be.

Gaz smiles prettily and offers his hand. It’s only then that I notice Soap is still shaking mine. I glance at our hands pointedly, and he drops the handshake with an awkward chuckle, bringing his hand up to the strap of his tac vest. I smirk slightly, thoroughly entertained, then turn to accept Gaz’s greeting.

“Will do, but why Gaz?” I can’t help the question, but, thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind it.

His laugh is just as pretty as his smile, and It loosens my tense shoulders, breaking any remaining ice.

“That’s classified.” He scuffs his boot into the hardtop like it’s not actually classified.

“Yeah?” I smile sweetly. “Aw well, I think it’s cool anyway.”

He squeezes my hand once before letting go, mirroring my grin.

Still smiling, I turn to the last team member: the skull-faced stranger. I try to meet his gaze confidently, but it doesn’t come across that way as I look up at him. He really is a lot taller than everyone else, a staggering six and a half feet, and he doesn’t bother to accommodate for the fact. Not even a tilt of his chin, he just faces straight ahead, looking down his nose at me.

I take a step back to ease the strain on my neck, and his eyes flicker at the movement, but he still doesn’t offer his hand like the others. I don’t let it deter me.

“And you are?” I don’t tone down my grin a bit, smiling with every bit of fang in me as I stick my hand between us. Stupidly cocky, too familiar too quickly. I feel like I'm reaching out to pet a puma, and adrenaline curls in my throat like smoke.

For an embarrassing moment, it looks like he won’t return the gesture, and my bravado falters. I keep the smile plastered on my face, but I’m more focused on studying his eyes than anything.

His irises really are almost black, but this close, I can see the veins of bronze in them, sweetening the shadows like honey. One of his eyebrows quirks slightly, his smeared on eye-black concealing the true color of it, but I can tell from his pretty, enviable thick eyelashes that he’s blond.

His expression screams unamused. Which is a shame, I’m damn funny when I want to be.

“Strong and silent type, ‘ey sir?" My smirk grows sharper, "Or silent but deadly?”

I waggle my eyebrows, encouraged by Soap’s guffaw and Gaz’s stifled snort. Even Price covers his laugh with an over-dramatic cough.

The stranger hums– I can’t get a read on the emotion behind it– then takes my hand, surprising me even though I’m the one who offered it.

The contact sparks through me, straight to my core. Shivering through me like my veins are live wires, taking my breath away even with his gloves on.

He doesn’t shake my hand like everyone else had, only squeezes it. The pressure grows, becomes borderline unbearable, and the rough nylon of his gloves digs uncomfortably into my skin.

I refuse to squirm. Instead, I rekindle my grin at the challenge, squeezing him back just as hard.

“Lieutenant Riley,” He finally answers. His voice is deep, heavily accented, morning sex heaven. "Or Ghost."

Goddamn his voice is attractive.

I catch myself nearly humming in delight before the actual meaning behind his words hits me.

Like a bullet, square between the eyes.

I blanche nearly as translucent as the mist swirlng at my feet. My grin freezes on my lips, dies a horrible death, then falls off my face to shatter into a million tiny pieces on the tarmac.

The fact I’d just compared my new lieutenant to a fart seems to be the funniest damn thing of the decade to everyone else. Who are all in various stages of repressed hysterics, elbowing each other or biting their knuckles, but they cut me some slack and school their expressions into bland entertainment before I spontaneously combust of embarrassment.

Ghost and I release our mutual hold on each other at nearly the same instant, and I glance away, suddenly grateful for the cold pinching my cheeks rosy.

Meekly, I turn back to Captain Price, simultaneously trying to focus on the rest of his introductions and ignore the humor dancing in his blue-gray eyes. Though, I can’t help but notice when the lieutenant subtly flexes some feeling back into his hand, running his dark honey eyes over me with slightly more interest.

To Be Continued

Also, little celebratory announcement: we've hit 100 kudos on Ao3 !!! Most of my fics have more, but reaching this milestone feels bigger and more satisfying somehow. Maybe because I actually put work and time out of my life into Your Hand Grenade Heart lol

Thanks so much to everyone who read and enjoyed Avangeline's eratic story (so far). There's a special place for each of you in my heart <3

[tisanemal]

Take Me To Church – priest!Andrew x OFC

Chapter 3: A Fresh Poison Each Week

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Female Character(s)

Characters: Andrew Hozier-Byrne, Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Bisexual Female Character, Forbidden Love, hot priest, Catholicism, Criticism of the Catholic Church, Inspired by Fleabag (TV), POV Alternating, no happy ending, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Dominant Woman, Submissive Man, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Explicit Consent, Oral Sex, Eventual Smut

Summary:

About a woman who already deconstructed her catholicism and who is trying to seduce a priest to “save” him from it, as she thinks. About a priest who thinks he has chosen his life path well, trying to bring his “friend” back to church, to “save” her. Fleabag-inspired priest!Hozier romance and smut. What can I tell you. This is for all the (ex)catholic women <3

Chapter 3: A Fresh Poison Each Week

Word count: 2712

Read also on AO3

Fic under the cut ↓

Summary:

She is horny, he's a priest. Guess what will happen next ;)

Mary got back to her parents’ house, exhausted after teaching workshops all day, with remnants of clay under her nails and an alarming pain in her knees. The mudroom door creaked in a familiar melody that the whole household knew — it was a telltale sign of someone arriving. Just as she was about to take off her boots and coat, she heard some unusual voices come from the dining room and she figured her mother had guests.

“It must be her — Mary, dear, would you please come here for a minute to say hi?” She heard her mother gently shout from said direction. Usually, Mary would be happy to meet the guests but today she was too worn out to care.

“Yes, coming...” But she knew better than to argue. Before she reached the dining room, a scent of an alluring cologne hit her nose, though. It was vaguely familiar but she could tell it didn’t belong to anyone living in the house. The deep, earthy tones prickled her senses with something more, like spice. She guessed it must belong to a visitor. It certainly made her curious now.

Mary walked into the room. At the dining table, set up neatly by her mother, there was a man, sitting with his back to her. He quickly got up and turned around to face her.

Mary was shocked.

It was the Hot Guy that visited her workshop two weeks ago — Andrew.

“Mary, meet Father Andrew, our new priest.” Who?! He was wearing a long, black soutane with a white collar, pretty unmistakable. “Father Andrew, this is Mary, our daughter.”

There certainly was a spark of shock on his face.

“Praised be Jesus Christ,” he said, his voice gentle, bowing his head subtly. He fastened his gaze on her a second too long — he certainly recognized her.

“Forever and ever, amen,” Mary replied automatically, too stunned to think of something more defiant.

There was an awkward second but thankfully her mother knew exactly how to fill it.

“Our daughter is staying with us temporarily as she’s launching her pottery workshop downtown,” her mother announced, father staying quiet like he always used to.

The priest gave Mary a weirdly conspiratorial look. “It certainly takes a lot of energy to run a business by yourself, doesn’t it, Miss Mary?” he dodged. Why wasn’t he mentioning he’d been there?

“It does, yes. But it’s very gratifying. As your job, I would guess?” She hoped it didn’t come off as mockery, even though she kind of meant it like that.

“Of course.” His smile was warm but he sounded spent. He looked uncanny in his clerical attire, at least to Mary’s eyes, than in his casual clothes she’d first seen him in. “I’m grateful to be in such an active and welcoming parish,” he turned to her mother and Mary felt that it wouldn’t have been their first conversation.

“But,” the priest continued, “speaking of the parish, I really should be going, my duties await me.” He bowed his head.

“Of course, Father Andrew,” her mother said. She’s always been great at all the pleasantries — more so than it has ever been necessary. The cutlery was always sanitized clean, though. “Mary, dear, why don’t you accompany our guest to the gate?” her mother asked her as if it was Mary’s duty somehow, signaling she is not to be refused. Mary would much rather not be in this situation, but when her mother wanted something, she really didn’t play.

Mary, still in her coat, followed the priest to the door, and, after he put on his jacket, walked with him through the short pathway from the house to the gate.

Perhaps she had gotten her hopes too high up, but when she and Andrew had talked, she really felt like it could have led to something. She liked his energy, warm and gentle. Had he visited her workshop a couple more times, perhaps she would have asked him out on a date. Had she been mistaken when she felt that good vibe between them?

“So, you’re a priest…” She started.

“I am. And you’re Mrs Potocki’s daughter…” He was a little awkward now.

“What, is like… my mother a big fish or something?” Mary laughed. “She’s never been that active at the church.”

“Well… I surely respect her,” he answered and it was ominous enough that Mary didn’t want to inquire any further.

“Is you being in my workshop some kind of a secret?” She needed to clear the air.

“No… I just… My parishioners don’t need to know everything about me, you know? I need some things just for myself.” His voice came to a whisper and he bore his eyes into his shoes.

That sudden disclosure shocked her, but she figured she would take that as an answer. And, technically, he hadn’t lied.

“Oh… I can understand that.” Mary looked over at the house. It was getting too small for her again. “It’s Father Andrew, right?” she asked. The title felt bitter in her mouth.

“Yes… Ehm…” he gazed into her eyes again and immediately looked down. “I’m the new vicar here. Started my first service just 5 months ago.” Mary nodded, trying to hide her colossal disappointment.

“Look,” he broke the awkward silence, fidgeting with his hands, “your mother mentioned you had some… problems? She didn’t tell me any details,” he added quieter as he saw outrage blooming on Mary’s face.

“Well. That’s a family matter between my mother and I.” Mary felt her throat getting dry. She didn’t like it one bit. She knew where this might be going. Thank God she was a mature, financially independent woman, and no one could make her do anything she wouldn’t want. Thank God she hadn’t come out to her parents when she was a child.

“Of course, of course,” Father Andrew said appeasingly. “But if you’re ever in trouble or just need to talk, the parish door is always open.” He smiled to her encouragingly, ignorant of her feelings towards what he was proposing. Yes, of course, she’ll come to church with problems that the church itself caused!

“I don’t think I need—” she felt her cheeks starting to burn; how could her mother be so insensitive? She wanted to scream.

But she looked at Father Andrew; his pretty face; a single messy curl of hair that adorned his forehead; his soft eyes, muddy green in the late afternoon sun. God, if he wasn’t actually a priest, she’d be on him in seconds.

The thought made her cheeks burn even hotter, but she didn’t feel like screaming anymore.

“In any case, I’ll be there,” he said plainly and didn’t push like she thought he would.

His modest gaze traveled from her face to the gate and back again to give her a gentle prompt to open it for him. She judged him for his dedication, read from his unyielding smile. He was living in another world, in which the church was apparently a safe haven. How ignorant, how blind…

Her hand stilled over the lock of the wooden gate. She wasn’t going to buy into that. She’d paid way too much for therapy over the years to be back with this shit.

So she said: “And if you ever want to get your hands wet again,” she reveled in the way his eyes widened for a second, “come by my workshop. You know how to book a date.”

She then opened the gate to let him out and he walked through it wordlessly. He looked at her again, and she expected him to be puzzled, maybe scandalized, but he chuckled, visibly amused. He clasped his hands together and as he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled adorably.

“Godspeed, Miss Mary. See you around,” he raised his eyebrows, and bowed his head subtly, not breaking the unnerving eye contact. And then he was on his way.

***

A couple of days later, on Sunday morning, Mary’s mother insisted on her going to church. Her father, who knew better than to argue, was already helping her mother with putting on her coat as Mary contemplated her fight or flight response.

There was a lot she hadn’t told her parents about the recent years.

She had told them every single little detail about the art studio, discussed accounting paperwork with her mother, and technical details with her father, but she had never dared to mention her relationship.

Her girlfriend, Leah. Mary never once did say that they’ve lived together for a year. And that it felt euphoric, that it was the happiest year of her life. It ended in heartbreak, but it wasn’t exactly like she couldn’t have seen it coming.

Her parents did know that she’d stopped going to church. At the beginning she kind of pretended it was because of university workload, then laziness, or that she had too little time to rest when she’d finally opened her business. The truth was obvious, though.

But she figured it would be just easier to suffer through an hour of mass than to start another argument with her mom. They loved each other, of course, and Mary had only good memories from her childhood, but, sadly, some topics were just not to be discussed at home — certainly not after it had almost led to them both cutting ties. Her bisexuality was one of those issues.

As her parents walked to church, Mary dragged behind them. She knew the way well: a row of semi-detached houses, a couple of shops, a blank space where a kiosk once used to be, a playground she’d loved so much as a child and where she’d first kissed a boy as a teenager (her most prized secret in secondary school), and a string of cafés, restaurants and pubs. It was a cute town. A little too small for her, but enough for 170,000 people, apparently.

Not enough to live her full life, though.

After a ten minute stroll, they reached the church. The same one she was baptized in. The same one in which she was excited to have her first communion, and in which she reluctantly went to confirmation, too.

It hadn’t changed at all — the neo-Gothic construction stood tall and proud. All problems aside, the church’s beauty always had Mary’s awe.

They entered, mother quietly greeting some acquaintances, father following close behind. Sometimes Mary wondered if he wanted to become invisible; if her mother didn’t crush every last ounce of personality he might have had.

Nevertheless, whenever Mary needed help, her dad was always a safe bet.

They entered and then sat in her mother’s favorite pew; third row, in the middle. Perfect to see the tabernacle, thelyrics screen and the priest conducting the mass.

The organist started to play a song, one that Mary had always liked, but then a sudden anxiety crept up on her; what if Hot Guy is here? Father Andrew, she corrected herself. Not long after the gathered faithful started singing did he emerge by the altar. Usual priest robes and everything. He looked so out of place. Mary thought to herself: They shouldn’t allow such handsome men to be priests; what a waste.

He chanted the first words of the introductory rites and she was hit with the most tender, soulful singing voice she’s ever heard. Of course. Not only was he hot but he could also sing. What else?

As everyone sat down, Father Andrew looked around the crowd. When he noticed Mary and her parents, he sent her the most dove-eyed smile she’s ever seen. Was that allowed?

She felt a jolt and she was certain it was the Virgin Mary Herself enlightening her. A thought sizzled in her brain, for a moment, that she would combust in flames if she looked at the priest again.

The rest of the mass went as usual, a combination of sitting, kneeling and standing while reciting prayers that have been etched onto Mary’s brain. She looked around from time to time. Did everyone in that church really mean every single word? Or was at least half of them there just because of family obligation? Was children’s zeal coming from within them or just from wanting to conform?

Mary watched in discomfort as her mother went to communion and how piously Father Andrew gave it to the participants. Most people chose to receive it on the tongue, straight from his bare hand, old-school style — none of that hand-to-hand bullshit — and she contemplated the view. She’d seen the sacrament countless times, the theatrics of it, but it felt different now; kind of special because she had touched the priest’s hands the other day in her workshop. She still couldn’t forget the warmth he aroused on her cheeks and in her core.

Her mother, serious and calm, got her communion and Mary felt a burning pang of jealousy; there was something too weirdly intimate about it. She occupied herself with singing, following the words displayed on the screen; she realized only now how their meaning had expired for her long ago.

The whole anguish ended, Father Andrew disappeared behind the sacristy door, and Mary breathed out. Walking out of the church, she was too brooding to join her parents who were stopped on the courtyard by some friends to talk. She just hung around on the parish grounds, trying to calm down all the thoughts she’d rather not have right now.

A familiar, titillating voice broke her from her contemplation.

“God bless—,” it was him, changed back into his usual black soutane now. He was standing just ten meters away, encircled by a clique of older ladies. They praised his sermon (that Mary hadn’t paid any attention to because of his beauty), and how great the last rosary group meeting was. He glanced at her from above their heads every now and then, too shy, or unwilling, to talk to her again.

But Mary, all her reluctance considered, wasn’t shy, nor was she scared of men — clergy or not.

The elderly ladies soon dispersed, paying their respects, talking about making dinner for their grandchildren or visiting friends. Mary’s plans for the rest of Sunday were unspecified.

Father Andrew kept on standing by in the courtyard; it was a small square of cobbled stones with a modest patch of flowers, wilted and worn out from winter.

Mary approached him, and when they locked eyes again, she swore she saw him almost back away, like he was scared of her. It only added to her mean girl spirit.

“Good morning,” she used a secular greeting. He seemed unfazed by this.

“God bless,” he said in a voice that was probably supposed to sound corrective, but she ignored it.

“It’s a beautiful Sunday today.” Mary had never been awkward. One benefit of having the mother that she did, she knew how to small talk.

“It is, it really is. Spring is blessing us with warmth this year,” he responded and she wanted to laugh.

“Sure. Nice service, by the way,”she said but her voice was dismissive. She had never dared to talk to a priest like that before.

“Thank… you,” he caught on. But his docility was unshaken, “you’re with your parents?” he motioned to them; they were now deep in conversationwith the other churchgoers.

“Yes. They made me come here,” she sighed.

Father Andrew chuckled silently.

“Parents usually know what’s good for their children.”

She raised her eyebrows. No time to unpack all that.

“All we have to do is respect and obey, right?” she mocked.

His eyes went wide for a moment, but then a corner of his mouth raised. He leaned in slightly to her, so that only she would hear what he had to say, squinting his eyes and tilting his head.

“You would know, right?” he said in a low voice, as if to scold her.

Then he straightened up and said: “Godspeed. Have a good Sunday, everyone,” a little louder for the people gathered in the courtyard. They responded with more or less enthusiastic ‘amens’, paying Mary little to no attention.

She was left dumbfounded because apparently a beloved priest had just flirted with her.

Fuck :)

[leviitome]

2. Love at First Sight | Ultraviolence

AO3 / Masterlist

cw: violence depicted, suicide, cults, crime, etc.

read at your own risk.

“What do you mean?” You spoke, startled by the unexpected question.

“Do you believe in it? Falling in love with someone at first sight?”

You glanced up at Levi, brows furrowed in confusion. You wanted to stop with the meaningless questions but you wanted information out of him.

So you play along.

“To be very honest, I do. Love is subjective to every person including me. How about you?” Your tone was slightly more casual now, attempting to make a more comfortable atmosphere for him.

“I do as well. I’ve experienced it.” He looks at you and smiles sweetly. A hint of mischievousness was still present in his eyes.

“Really? When?” You ask, intrigued, leaning more towards him after every question that comes out of your mouth.

“Just now.”

Levi smirks, looking down at your dumbfounded stupor.

He wanted to laugh because now you have no idea what you’re going to do. You tried to make yourself look busy by writing down your observations. But in reality, there is none. Your paper is blank.

What once was a progressing comfortable atmosphere turned into something that was awkward. Even for Levi, who was now starting to regret what he said because you are looking at anywhere else but him.

Of course what he said was a lie. You thought to yourself. You were the type to find cheesy lines cute, but you weren’t stupid.

So again, you play along.

You peer up at Levi, forcing an embarrassed smile. Trying to act like his line worked on you.

You adjust yourself in your seat and release a flustered laugh. Your time with him for today was now overdo. Who knew five minutes of silence alone, in a cell, with an extremely attractive sociopath automatically means that you have traveled time and that you have been spending three hours on a patient who barely spoke a sentence or two?

You stood up from your seat and straightened your clothing, grabbing your suitcase and taking out your hand for him to shake on the other.

Somehow, you wanted to feel his touch again, the way his lips caressed your skin made you look forward to this meeting a little bit more than yesterday.

He stood up and reached for your hand, he then used it to turn your body. Back facing him now.

And almost as if you were in a trance, you were too unaware of the situation that you didn’t catch Levi slipping something in your pocket.

Too busy craving for more of his touch, too busy yearning for more, you almost forgot about the position he put you in.

You almost stumble back but he caught you, quickly grabbing a hold of your waist and squeezing it lightly. The proximity between you two was too close, it was everything you didn’t want to happen. But you let it happen anyway.

You couldn’t say anything, too flustered from the situation. So he decides to break the silence.

“Good talk, Ms. Lange,” Levi whispered. He sensed the shivers running from your body, he grins again.

He adjusts himself and straightens you so you aren't leaning into him anymore.

And after a moment of realization, you quickly tighten your hold on your suitcase and rush out the door. Not even bothering to utter a goodbye.

You were tense, flustered, and guilty. Because not only did you attain absolutely nothing from that interview, but also because you were looking forward to seeing him again on Monday.

That sense of guilt seeped into your body all at once and you don’t know what to feel. It scared you, to the point where a feeling of familiarity appeared out of nowhere.

You didn’t gain any ounce of information out of him and you feel and look like a mess. Either way, you’re royally screwed.

-

The breath of fresh air soothed your nerves as you walked to your car.

Everything was calm to you now and everything was back to normal.

Back in Levi’s room, you were tense, as if he did something to the room that made it feel like you were walking on eggshells. You didn’t know what answer would come out of his mouth, and it’s better if you didn’t.

You were exhausted, three hours of silence for nothing. So you decided to head straight home instead of stopping by at Sasha’s job. She was a cook, along with her partner, they both own a restaurant near your work. You caught yourself admiring her life and you couldn’t help but feel happy for her, sure you envy her sometimes, like the way she’s worked so hard to get out of Avon, to live a life where everything was perfect. A job, a partner, a beautiful house. It was something she’s always dreamed of when the both of you were so sure that your crappy lives will always be spent in Avon but now, she has everything. And you don’t.

As you drive home you can’t help but think of what happened that day, the blood, the bathroom, your mother. At that point in your lifetime, it was all just a blur. You couldn’t remember anything else that happened after the incident.

You shake your head, attempting to snap back to reality. You didn’t realize you reached home until you were waiting for the gate to open. It was a fairly nice neighborhood, a gated community, and nice people. It was enough for you, it was simple and it didn’t cause much of a hassle.

You rummage through your purse, looking for the keys to your house. You hear your dog’s nails excitingly reaching out to you from behind the door. You smile warmly while opening the door, just as excited to see your pet after a long and painfully awkward day at work.

You drop your suitcase on the floor and try to carefully close the door before he could get out. Your dog may be old but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to let his curiosity shine through.

You sit down on the floor with him, giving him some of your attention before you start working on ‘Levi Ackerman’s Grand Scheme of Things I Can’t Seem to Figure Out’ also known as LAGSTICFO, or at least that’s what you called it. It seems a bit too long but suggestions are always open for your friends to try and help but there’s no use because it always ends up getting vetoed.

You play with your dog more before he starts getting curious again. Shuffling around your clothing like he was digging a hole in your yard. He dug his nose into the pocket of your blazer, sticking his nose in it and you started to notice that he wasn’t just playing around, he was trying to grab something.

Your brows furrowed and you reached for your pocket. A piece of paper folded carefully, carefully enough that it would go unnoticed but wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. You opened the piece of paper and all you could see was red.

“You are free.”

[nautiscarader]

Holiday Heat ch 5

(Ao3)

…with wet hair, her otherwise naked body wrapped only in a bath towel.

Max let out a loud hyuck, his eyes meandering across the fluffy blanket, before finally finding strength to turn to the side.

"Gawrsh-I-I think I'm a bit early…", he stuttered, getting a soft giggle in return.

"Oh, no, no, you- you are on time, I've been taking forever… please, come in!"

Max allowed himself another look at his girlfriend, dancing around him barefeet, with only the thinnest layer of cloth shielding her naked, wet body…

In a span of a second, his mind was flooded with impure thoughts he's been trying to suppress.

"…I've lost track of time, cos, you know, my folks are out visiting my uncle, and…", Roxanne kept explaining, leaving a small puddle of water underneath her.

She fixed her hair.

"You look very handsome", she complimented him.

Max smiled, glad that trading his baggy pants and jacket for a bit more stylish, though still casual ones, has made a desired impression on her.

"Thanks, you look great too", he answered automatically.

It took him a full second to understand his mistake, as he watched her eyes widen.

"I-I-I mean, not, not in THAT, obviously…", he waved his arms, once more afraid to look at her. "…though I'm not saying you're not looking good, you-you always do…"

"Oh, Maxie…"

He received another soft chuckle, followed by a kiss to his cheek. And as she did so, Max was hit with mixture of perfumes, fruity shampoo, soap, as well a tiny hint of a fragrance he's never smelled before, yet alerted him at once and has stirred a part of his brain he wasn't quite aware of, yet has been sitting dormant there for years…

"I'll be ready in a mo", Roxanne brought him back to his senses, "Sit down, watch the TV, maybe, I'll be right back!"

She spun around, letting just an inch more of her bare skin visible, as the towel was lifted by the air, and she dashed back to the bathroom, leaving Max only with slightly slower pumping heart. He gently sat onto the sofa, the sight of nearly-naked Roxanne still very vivid in his mind…

He tried relaxing, but he couldn't shake off these thoughts. And there was that scent, that wild note hidden under layers of other, more familiar smells that made Max wish he could just barge intro that bathroom without care in the world and-

"I'm ready!"

Roxanne sing-song voice brought him once more from his daydream… and made him question his perception of reality.

Roxanne wasn't dressed in her usual jean shorts, she wore an airy, white dress, the same one he's seen so many times, yet never thought it would be real.

She shied away, letting another soft laughter.

"…I take you like it?"

Only now Max has realised his jaw has been hanging open for the past minute or so, as his eyes tried to absorb the angelic beauty standing in front of him.

"You-you look gorgeous.", he replied, standing up.

"Thanks…"

"Oh, and, I, uh…", Max reached for a square flat box, "I've bought something for you…"

He opened the lid, and watched Roxanne's eyes widening and filling with glimmer, as she marvelled at the sight of the necklace.

"Maxie… You-you shouldn't- How much did it cost?", she asked, afraid of even touching the box.

"Er, it's not that much. Lots of people needed mowing their lawns and stuff…", he replied modestly.

Roxanne smiled and turned around, moving her auburn hair aside.

"Would you mind helping me put it on?"

Max swallowed loudly. He could heart his heartbeat again.

"No, of course not…"

He stepped closer, his body just an inch or so from her half-exposed back, and with trembling hands, he put the necklace around her neck. And only now, as their bodies got closer and closer, he's felt the uncomfortable tightness in his pants, only strengthened by the proximity of his crotch to her ass… Has she noticed it? Is that why she's asked if "he likes it"? Is that why she was now nearly falling against him?

Max swallowed loudly and leaned again to secure the necklace. And as he did so, he smelt it again, that impossible to describe, almost imperceptible scent that could drive him wild, make him grab her waist, bend her over that coffee table, lift or rip her dress and-

"Max? Is something wrong?"

"Er, no, no!", Max replied, hastily locking the necklace. Roxanne turned around and closed her arms around him, presenting him with an unexpected kiss. He melted in her arms, before her voice alerted him again.

"Come on, Max, or we're gonna be late for the movie!"

With one swift move, she slipped out of his arms' reach, twirled around, showing her necklace and got to the door, waiting for her date. A moment later, the two were on the way, chatting about their plans for college…

When they've stepped inside the cinema, he was not surprised to see the lobby packed with awaiting people. After all, "Cosmic Crusaders 2" was the most anticipated movie of the Summer. The elderly lady at the gate could barely keep up with checking the tickets. Max was glad he thought of buying them beforehand, allowing them to cut straight through the long line.

"Hang on, young man…", she suddenly stopped, lifting his tickets under the light, "It's not printed correctly… I don't know which movie you should be watching…"

Cold sweat rushed down Max's back.

"What? A-are you saying we can't get in?!"

"Hmm…", the woman scratched her chin, "Actually, I think it's your lucky day! The title has been scrambled, so I guess you can choose!"

He looked at the poster wall, and noticed that aside the eye-catching, bombastic "Cosmic Crusaders 2" was a much humbler one, advertising a romantic comedy with British loveable dorky actor Grant Huffingson. And only now the realisation dawned on him that taking his girlfriend to a sci-fi movie he has been waiting to see might not have been the best move…

"So, Max… which one did you get? Come on, be honest.", Roxanne leaned onto his shoulder.

"Er…"

(shoutout to the first person who voted on the prev one and straight chose "nothing". Luv your dirty mind)

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 12 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

——————————————————————————————————

Mia

I watched him stay still when the white SUV turned onto the street, pulling into the driveway across from where we were parked.

I saw the kids first—Tanner’s little face pressed to the window, Millie’s small hands smacking her sippy cup against the glass.

And Abby behind the wheel. Sunglasses. Smile like steel.

Frank didn’t move.

Not when the engine cut off.

Not when Tanner’s small backpack tumbled out of the backseat.

Not when Abby shepherded them up the walkway, Millie toddled behind them, dragging her battered fox.

He didn’t move until the front door clicked shut behind them. 

Only then did he step out of the car. 

No hesitation.

No backward glance.

He crossed the lawn, climbed the steps, and slipped inside the house that had broken him once already.

I waited.

I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the rearview.

Thirty seconds.

Forty.

No screaming. 

No sound at all.

Only when Frank disappeared inside—only when the door shut behind him—did I finally breathe out and pulled away from the curb.

The street blurred around me as I pulled away.

It was done. 

He was inside. 

He was back.

Exactly what the plan demanded.

Exactly what my gut hated.

I reached for my phone at a stoplight. Tapped open a locked, encrypted folder with a single contact stored under a name no one at PTMC would recognize.

The man I never wanted to owe again.

The number I never wanted to use.

I’d pulled it anyway.

I dragged parts of my old life back into existence, pressed it like a loaded gun into Frank’s pocket, and hoped he never had to fire it.

I’d pay for it later.

I already knew how it would start.

Less sleep, longer hours and more nights pretending I wasn’t balancing two lives. 

It was the cost.

I’d made my decision the second Frank told me he was ready.

And if the price was a little more blood on my hands—so be it.

I drove away from the house at exactly 16:26.

Frank was back where he needed to be.

The next move wasn’t mine anymore.

~~~~~~~

Frank

I saw them go in first.

That should have made it easier somehow.

Knowing the house wasn’t empty.

Knowing I wouldn’t walk into silence.

It didn’t.

If anything, it made it worse.

I saw Tanner skipping up the walkway, his backpack swinging.

Millie toddling behind, dragging her stuffed fox.

Abby turning, smiling over her shoulder like they were the perfect family walking into the perfect home.

The door closed behind them.

I stood at the curb for a long moment, the key in my pocket feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Then I made myself walk forward.

Up the steps.

Across the porch.

Through the door.

The house smelled the same—like fabric softener and old wood and something sharp and chemical underneath.

The cartoon was playing low in the living room.

The kids’ backpacks were tossed carelessly by the stairs.

Millie’s sippy cup was already on the coffee table.

Normal.

Too normal.

I heard Abby in the kitchen, humming to herself.

Dishes clanking.

The casual sound of a woman who knew she had won.

Tanner spotted me first.

“Daddy!” he shrieked, abandoning the blocks on the carpet.

Before I could even drop my bag, he barreled into me.

I caught him automatically, arms locking around his small body.

Millie came next, wobbly and smiling, her fox trailing behind her.

They smelled like sunshine and apples and innocence.

Untouched.

Still okay.

Still okay.

I barely heard Abby step out of the kitchen behind me.

“Well,” she said, too brightly. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

I didn’t look up.

Couldn’t.

Not yet.

I just held onto the kids a little tighter.

“Look, daddy, look!” Tanner held up a crayon drawing, edges crumpled, colors wild and bright. “I made this at school! It’s you and me and Millie and mommy!”

I smiled as best I could.

“That’s amazing, buddy. You did a great job.” 

Millie babbled nonsense words against my shoulder.

Abby crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorframe like a queen surveying her broken court.

“How sweet.” she sneered, voice still carrying that saccharine tone. “Too bad it doesn’t erase the last five days.”

My stomach twisted.

Tanner tugged at my sleeve. “Daddy, are you staying now? You’re not gonna leave again, right?”

I look into his wide, hopeful eyes. 

And lied.

“Yeah, buddy. I’m here.”

For now.

Until I could tear us all out of this mess.

Abby’s smile thinned.

“Well,” she started, “since you’re so eager to be back, why don’t you help Tanner with his homework?”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a test. 

A reminder.

I control when you breathe.

I swallowed the instinct to flinch.

“Sure,” I agreed quietly.

Tanner whooped with excitement, grabbing my hand and pulling toward the dining table.

As I let him drag me away, I felt Abby’s eyes boring into my back.

Waiting.

Watching.

Planning the next blow.

Because in this house, the smiles were the first warning shot.

And I was back behind enemy lines.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 16, 17:10

I stayed two streets over, car idling, until I got the first check-in from Morales.

No safe word. No distress code.

Frank was inside.

Alive.

But survival wasn’t stability.

It was just inertia.

At 17:32, I answered a call from Ellis asking if I could cover for her on the 18th.

I said yes without hesitation.

Long hours meant less time to sit with guilt gnawing at me.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 17, 07:76

Breakfast was a quiet battlefield.

Tanner kicked his legs against the chair, eating cereal too fast.

Millie dropped her spoon twice, whimpering when the milk splashed.

Abby made eggs.

Set a plate in front of me without looking.

The eggs were burned.

The fork was bent.

When I didn’t thank her, she smiled like she was filing the moment away for later punishment.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 17, 19:20

My shift started rough—three codes back-to-back, one MVA, one overdose.

By noon, I barely had time to breathe. 

I kept my phone tucked in the inside pocket of my jacket, feeling it vibrate now and then.

Quick texts from Morales.

“Still no distress call. Holding.” 

Each one should have been reassuring.

Instead, they hallowed me out a little more each time.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 18, 14:07

Millie tripped in the hallway, skinning her knee.

She cried.

Tanner panicked.

I rushed forward instinctively—but Abby beat me there.

She scooped Millie up fast and hard, smiling too wide as she hissed under her breath, “Back off. You’re upsetting them.”

Her nails dug into Millie’s thigh.

Millie whimpered and pressed closer to her.

I stepped back like I’d been hit.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 18m 23:43

I sat in the on-call room at PTMC, scrolling through updates from Cynthia and Reeva.

Reeva was building a full timeline now.

The wheels were turning.

I just needed Frank to survive until we could pull the trigger.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 19, 18:12

Dinner was silent.

Abby let Tanner chatter about preschool while her eyes stayed locked on me across the table. 

Millie sat stiffly in her booster seat, eating with careful, deliberate bites.

Every time my fork scraped the plate, Abby flinched like I was attacking her.

It was a performance.

For the kids.

For herself.

Every noise I made was a weapon she turned back to me.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 19, 19:00

I sat outside the hospital, drinking bitter coffee, texting Morales again.

Still no triggers?

Not yet. He’s holding.

Holding,

Not living.

Not breathing freely.

Just holding.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 20, 23:09

The house was too quiet.

Tanner and Millie were already asleep.

I sat on the couch, half-watching the muted TV, pretending the room wasn’t electric with tension.

Abby moved through the kitchen behind me.

Her footsteps too soft.

Too deliberate.

She dropped onto the couch next to me without a word.

Close.

Too close.

I stiffened.

She leaned in—smiling.

Her voice was low and syrupy.

“You’re going back to work tomorrow, aren’t you?” she murmured.

I nodded once, not trusting my voice.

She trailed her fingers along my wrist, feather-light, cold.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered.

“You’ll have plenty to explain if you leave again.”

My chest tightened.

I couldn’t breathe.

Before I could respond, she pressed a kiss to my temple.

Mocking.

Possessive.

Terrifying.

Then she stood and walked away without another word.

I sat frozen.

The TV flickered.

Some laugh tracks blared mutedly.

And I realized—

The real punishment hadn’t even started yet.

~~~~~~~

April 21, 04:03

I woke up before the alarm. 

The house was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet.

The kind that meant something was waiting for me.

The clock read 4:03 AM.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe around me.

Tanner snored softly down the hall.

Millie shifted in her crib, her music box faintly chiming.

And Abby—

I didn’t know where Abby was.

I didn’t dare find out.

I rolled out of bed slowly, moving on automatic.

Work bag packed.

Extra scrubs folded clean inside.

Badge and stethoscope checked and rechecked.

Everything ready.

Everything controlled.

The kitchen lights were already on when I padded down the hall.

Abby stood by the counter, pouring coffee into two travel mugs.

One slid across the counter toward me without her looking up.

The smell was familiar. Bitter. Too strong.

My stomach twisted.

I reached for it anyway.

Habit.

“First day back,” she pointed out lightly, stirring sugar into her cup with a clink of the spoon.

I nodded.

Her smile was slow, like honey dripping from a knife.

“You nervous?”

I wrapped my hands around the mug to hide the shake in them.

“A little,” I confessed.

Her head tilted, studying me the way someone studies a wound.

“Well,” she taunt, voice still very much saccharin, “you have a lot to prove, don’t you?”

The words landed soft.

Almost kind.

But the meaning sliced deep.

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

“Right.” I stuttered, barely breathing.

She reached out then, smoothing a hand down my arm—almost affectionate.

Almost.

“I packed you lunch,” her voice light, “though you might need something comforting.”

I blinked.

Lunch?

Abby hadn’t packed my lunch since intern year.

The pit in my stomach grew teeth.

I didn’t argue.

Didn’t question.

Didn’t reach for the brown paper bag on the counter.

Just nodded “Thanks.”

Her smile sharpened.

“No problem, honey. We take care of our own, don’t we?”

The sentence was too casual to be casual.

My phone buzzed against my hip—a text reminder from PTMC, automated, reminding me of my shift start time.

Abby’s eyes flickered to the sound.

“Don’t be late,” she said, voice low and lethal.

“You wouldn’t want to give them another reason to doubt you.”

I grabbed my bag, keeping my breathing steady.

Every movement had to be perfect.

Every word measured.

I didn’t check the lunch.

Didn’t drink the coffee.

Didn’t give her an opening to corner me further.

Tanner’s art was taped to the fridge—stick figures of us all smiling.

Millie’s stuffed fox lay forgotten under the kitchen table.

I stepped back from all of it.

I gave Abby a neutral smile. “See you later.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

I walked out the door.

Every step away from that house felt like wading through molasses.

Every second is like something clawing at the back of my throat.

I didn’t let my hands shake until the door was locked behind me.

I didn’t breathe until I was in my car.

I sat there for a moment, forehead against the steering wheel, letting the cold air from the vent rush over my face.

You’re out. You’re out. You’re out.

At least for now.

At least for the day.

I turned the ignition and drove to the place I wasn’t even sure was safe anymore

~~~~~~~

April 21, 06:48

The parking garage smelled like oil and wet concrete.

I pulled into the third level out of habit.

Same spot.

Same view of the cracked concrete pillar.

Same slow drag of air in my lungs.

It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

I sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, counting my breathing against the tick of the cooling engine.

When I finally forced myself out of the car, the walk to the staff entrance felt heavier than it should have.

Badge tap. 

Door buzz.

The hallway into the pitt was dimmer this early, just the faint buzz of tired conversations and printers spitting out orders.

The normal chaos hadn’t hit yet.

But the weight already had.

I kept my head down as I moved towards the central station, feeling the too-quick glances, the too-loud silences behind me.

Chris was at the board, flipping through the shift sheets.

He looked up when he saw me, and his whole face softened.

“Langdon,” he said, stepping away from the desk. “Good to have you back.”

He clapped my shoulder—brief, steady, and careful.

No pity.

No hesitation.

“We’re keeping you on light duty for the first week,” Chris reminded me, voice easy, like it was no big deal. “No trauma codes, no running new crash alerts. Just pick up what’s posted on the board. Anything triaged and waiting to be seen is yours if you feel up for it.”

“Got it.” I accepted, voice rough but steady.

He gave a short nod—professional, respectful—and turned back to the board.

I shifted towards the monitors and didn’t make it two steps before a voice called out.

“Dr. Langdon!” 

I turned.

Mel stood nearby, almost bouncing in place, her tablet hugged tightly to her chest.

She was practically vibrating with restrained energy. Not forced, not theatrical. Just real, leaking out through every sharp-edged movement. “You’re back,” she said, her mouth twitching like she was trying very hard to say it correctly.

“In the flesh,” I uttered, letting a small, real smile break through.

Mel took a quick step forward, recalculating halfway, then blurted out, “I saved the updated allergen list for you.”

The words tumbled out, sharp and sincere.

Something loosened in my chest.

We’d known each other for a shift before the overdose, but the bond between us felt older.

“Thanks Mel.”

“I kept your spot in the breakroom too,” she added seriously. “The chair by the window. No one else sits there. I made sure.”

I huffed a small breath. Almost a laugh.

“Good to know. I’ll defend it with honor.”

She nodded, and as if that completed a mental checklist, drifted back into the flow of the pitt without needing more.

No pity.

Just fact.

Just loyalty.

Collins caught me next, striding past with coffee in hand 

“Good to see you, Langdon,” she greeted, flashing a smile. “The pitt’s been too boring without you.”

“Not sure boring’s bad.” I muttered

She laughed, easy and bright. “Only if you’re boring yourself.”

She disappeared in room 8 without waiting for a reply.

The warmth from their greetings stayed longer than I expected.

Small mercies.

Small anchors.

Not everyone had turned away.

Looking up at the board felt almost normal.

Asthma exacerbation. Wrist fracture. Migraine evaluation.

Easy. simple. Safe.

“I can do this. Just focus on the work,” I said to myself, didn’t know if I was convincing myself or the universe.

~~~~~~~

April 21, 13:29

I was charting notes when the air behind me changed.

Heavier. 

Slower.

I didn’t have to turn.

I already knew.

Robby.

Standing a few feet away, coffee in hand, the other stuffed awkwardly into the pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

“Frank, can we talk?”

I looked at him. Really looked.

He looked worn down.

Tired in a way that no shift could explain. Like guilt had been eating at him the way it had been eating at me.

I didn’t move for a long second.

Didn’t offer anything. 

Didn’t soften.

Then, finally, I nodded once.

“Five minutes,” I offered, voice sounding cold even to me.

He nodded like a drowning man grabbing the edge of a raft.

He gestured toward the locker room—a pocket of semi-privacy.

I followed, because some ghosts don’t get exorcised by waiting.

The locker room smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee.

I leaned against my locker, back against it, arms crossed loosely over my chest.

Robby stood awkwardly in front of me, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

He opened his mouth then closed it again. Looked anywhere but at me.

Finally he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he started, voice stiff around the edges. “I–I should’ve handled things differently.”

I didn’t say anything. Let the silence sit between us like broken glass. 

Robby pressed on, almost defensive.

“But you should have said something,” he added, the words a little too sharp “You should’ve told me if something was wrong.”

My jaw tightened.

There it was.

The apology that wasn’t an apology. 

The guilt he didn’t want to carry alone.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I mean–how was I supposed to know?” he asked, “You didn’t tell anyone. Not me. Not admin. You didn’t—” he cut himself off, exhaling hard.

He looked up finally, searching my face for something. 

For absolution, maybe.

Or for answers he wasn’t entitled to.

“You could’ve trusted me,” he accused me, “I could’ve helped you.”

I stayed where I was, arms folded, heartbeat dull against my ribs.

“You didn’t ask.” 

He flinched.

“You saw what you wanted to see,” I added, voice flat and tired, “You didn’t ask. You decided.”

Robby shifted again, uncomfortable.

“Ineeded to act fast,” he muttered, “It’s the ER. If I’d hesitated and you–if you’d been using, I would’ve put patients at risk.”

I nodded slowly.

I understood his logic.

Didn’t mean it hurt less. Didn’t mean it was easily forgivable.

Robby scrubbed a hand across his mouth, like he hates the taste of the conversation. 

“What happened, Frank? What the fuck is actually happening with you?” Robby didn’t ask. He demanded.

I looked at him. Looked at the man who once trusted me to lead traumas, who once handed me the worst nights without a second thought—and who threw me away in a heartbeat when it got inconvenient. 

“No,” I said, simply.

His face tightened. “Frank…”

“No,” I repeated, voice steady. “You don’t get to ask that!.” I snapped, straightening off the locker. “You don’t get to demand answers now.”

He stared at me. Realizing, maybe for the first time, that the space between us wasn’t something an apology could bridge.

I stepped past him without another word. I also stepped past Dana who watched the entire thing.

I didn’t owe him my story.

I don’t owe any of them anything at all.

I didn’t stop walking until I reached the break room. The door creaked softly as it swung shut behind me. 

I crossed the room automatically–past the stale smell of burned coffee and the half-forgotten boxes of pastries from last night’s shift–to the chair by the window.

The one Mel had saved.

The one no one else was allowed to touch.

The one that had a direct view of the bench across the street.

I dropped into it heavily, resting my elbows on my knees, my hands loose and shaking slightly in the still air.

For a moment, I just sat there…breathing.

Trying to convince my body that it was safe.

The pitt buzzed faintly on the other side of the door—codes being called, voices murmuring, beds wheeled past with soft clatters. 

I wasn’t on trauma codes.

I wasn’t being shoved out.

I was here.

Alive.

Breathing.

I closed my eyes and counted my heartbeat, slow and methodical.

And yet the weight of the day pressed down on my chest until it felt like my ribs might crack and cave. 

The stares today.

The too-careful glances.

The whispered conversations cutting off when I walked by.

It clung to me like static electricity, buzzing under my skin, refusing to dissipate.

I dragged a hand down my face, trying to ground myself. And for one stupid, reckless second, I wished Mia was here.

I pictured her leaning against the doorframe with a cup of shitty coffee, arms crossed, giving me that look that said breathe, frank, you’re fine.

I wanted her voice anchoring me.

I wanted her quiet presence smoothing out the jagged panic building in my chest.

But she wasn’t coming.

She wasn’t on her way.

She wasn’t even in the building.

Nightshift.

She always worked nights.

I was alone here.

Completely, crushingly alone.

That realization cracked something wide open.

My breath caught halfway up my throat—too shallow, too sharp.

 I folded in on myself without meaning to, forearms braced on my thighs, forehead dropping on my palms.

The room blurred around the edges.

The walls felt closer.

The ceiling felt lower.

Breathe.

Hold.

Release.

It wasn’t enough.

The memories surged anyways.

The bench.

The bag of ativan shaking in my hand.

The cold wood digging into my back as I slipped under.

I pressed my palms harder into my eyes until stars burst behind my lids.

Not here.

Not now.

Not like this.

But the panic didn’t care.

It pushed harder, wild, and scraping, until my chest heaved against it.

Until my nails dug into the fabric of my scrub pants, anchoring myself to the chair because if I let go, I wasn’t sure I’d stay upright.

The first sharp, breathless sob broke free before I could stop it.

Silent. 

Violent.

I clench my jaw to keep the next one in, tasting salt and shame and fear. 

The world tilted.

Flattened. 

squeezed.

Until finally—

Finally—

I forced a shuddering breath into my lungs.

Forced it out.

Again.

And again.

Until the room started to slow its spin. 

Until the static coursing through my limbs began to pull back.

Until I could lift my head, blinking against the weak daylight threading through the narrow window.

I sat there for a long time, breathing like I’d run a marathon.

The ER beyond the door still buzzed like nothing had changed.

And me?

I was still here.

Not okay.

Not whole.

But here.

And for today—

For this hour,

For this minute,

That would have to be enough.

~~~~~~~

Thirty more minutes.

That’s all I had to survive.

The end of my shift hung ahead of me like a finish line. Close enough to taste, too far to feel safe.

I leaned against the nurses’ station, coffee in hand and scrolling half-heartedly through the triage board, ticking off easy follow-ups in my head.

No new traumas.

No disasters. 

Just a handful of minor cases to hand off at four o’clock.

I could do this.

I could finish this shift.

I could go home and figure out how to survive whatever fresh hell waited behind my front door.

The triage radio crackled sharply to life. “Ambulance inbound. Five minutes out.” came the paramedic’s voice, slightly rushed but clear.

Peds case. Young male. 4 years old.

Collapsed during school hours.

Altered mental status.

Weakness reported during the past week—clumsiness, fatigue, episodes of dizziness.

Today: sudden collapse post-snack.

Now bradycardia.

Respiratory rate shallow.

low blood pressure.

No external trauma noted.

Vitals unstable.

Unresponsive to voice.

Oxygen applied.

IV established.

Standard report. Professional. Crisp.

But there was something in the way the paramedic hesitated. Just a heartbeat longer than he should have. 

“It’s Langdon’s son.”

[cricketnationrise]

For the ficlet fest: 6:42 pm, a private stage, and Arthur Fox please. My ao3 is katsudonforthesoul. Congratulations on the followers!! It's so kind of you to give back to us as a way to celebrate, especially on top of all the other things you do!

thank you so much for your kind words! the not so secret part of the ficlet fests is that all y'all's prompts are so fucking cool that i have an absolute BLAST writing them <3 for once the Arthur feels are non-angsty, which is exciting for all of us, frankly. enjoy!

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

6:42pm, a private stage

“O, for a muse of fire that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention!”

No one becomes an actor hoping for small audiences. 

Famous actors can wax poetic all they want about how “reaching even one person is meaningful,” but at their core, in their secret egos, all actors want to be able to interact with the largest possible audiences. That dream is why Arthur tolerates filming; the reach is so much greater than live theatre. Even so, he’d much rather be on a stage, in front of a live audience. That feedback, that energy of a crowded room, solely focused on him and the story he’s telling is intoxicating.

“A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, and monarchs to behold the swelling scene!” Arthur winks at Catherine as he finishes the line, making her giggle. As much as he loves a packed house, there’s something special about performing for her alone, hidden away in his flat for once. She’d worn down her PPO’s enough that they’d grudgingly allowed her to stay the night, and that they’d monitor from down the hall instead of right outside his door after sweeping his place. Arthur can’t stop looking at her, casual in a way she rarely is, even in her own rooms in Kensington, completely at home here with him. The next line, something about Mars and hounds, pours out of him automatically, years of muscle memory serving him well, but Arthur couldn’t have told anyone what it actually is right now. He’s too distracted trying to memorize the precise configuration of laugh lines around her eyes.

He comes back to the text in time to appreciate the irony. “But pardon, gentles all, the flat unraisèd spirits that hath dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.” It’s one thing to try to imagine vast battles and courts of ages past when you’re watching from The Globe, the building itself drenched in echoes of people imagining the same things for centuries—it’s another thing altogether to try and imagine fantastical settings and the grand scale of the story with a backdrop of worn out floors and his amazingly shit telly. Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France, indeed?

“Or may we cram within this wooden square the very casques that did affright the air at Agincourt?” Arthur recites, swapping “O” for “square” to reflect the shape of the room, grinning when Cat catches the change. She’s a princess, and she’s bloody brilliant, and she’s dating him. And if she wants him to perform Shakespeare for her, he’ll do it with bells on.

He bows a little at the next line. “O pardon, since a crookèd figure may attest in little place a million, and let me, ciphers to this great account, on your imaginary forces work.” Arthur meets her bright gaze steadily, as the lines ask her to imagine mighty monarchies and proud-hoofed horses.

Arthur paces forward and kneels before her where she’s perched on the couch. “For ‘tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings carry them here and there, jumping o’er times, turning th’ accomplishment of many years into an hourglass.”

“Did you mean, my entire life?” Cat snorts. 

Arthur just chuckles in response and takes her hand for the last line. “Admit me chorus to this history, who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray gently to hear, kindly to judge our play.”

Cat twines her fingers with him and leans her face close to his. “I can’t believe you memorized a scene that wasn’t your own from Henry V, you gigantic nerd.”

“It’s a good monologue,” he protests. “And you like that I’m a gigantic nerd.”

“God help me, I really do,” she admits, standing up and pulling him up after her. “Now, let’s put a different gigantic part of you to work, shall we?”

“Well, if you absolutely insist…” Arthur fakes a heavy sigh, but lets her tow him toward the bedroom, more than happy to do her bidding.

[hongherbac]

[Super Five Centric] In Case of Emergency

Read it on AO3

Words: 2,778

Additional Tags: Fluff

Summary: Reigen was invited to the Super Five gathering. There was a conversation waiting for him, but it turned out pretty well. (In this universe, they all cared for each other)

In Case of Emergency

　　There must be something wrong.

　　Reigen was sitting on a couch in an ordinary, cozy apartment. Although he was wearing a smile, he didn't let off his guard for a moment. He observed the surroundings cautiously. There were five other people in the room. They were relaxed, moving casually between the living room and the kitchen, opening the fridge for drinks, and throwing a few words and banter at each other from time to time.

　　He had memorized the names of these five people: Shibata Hiroshi, Hatori Nozomu, Shimazaki Ryo, Minegishi Toshiki, and Reigen's most trusted subordinate and friend, Serizawa Katsuya.

　　In other words--

　　Reigen was at a gathering of the former Super Five of 'Claw'.

　　It all started with Serizawa's enthusiastic invitation.

　　"I'm not sure. This is a gathering of your friends. An outsider like me could make everyone uncomfortable."

　　"Uh, actually, it was their idea to invite you, Reigen-san."

　　Reigen raised his eyebrows.

　　"I mentioned some of my work to them before, and they sounded quite interested, saying that they wanted to know Reigen-san in person." Serizawa blushed, "I, I also really want to introduce you to each other. After all, you are all important friends to me… Ah! But there’s absolutely no pressure!"

　　Those ex-criminals, ex-anti-socials, and ex-terrorists wanted to invite Reigen himself to their gathering?

　　There must be something wrong.

　　It was a cold day. Snowflakes fell from the sky, melting into water on the ground, making the streets wet and slippery. The whole city was shrouded in mist. Serizawa held an umbrella for both of them, leading the way to a quiet residential neighborhood. They stopped in front of a plain, simple apartment building. Just as he reached out to ring the bell, the metal door sprang open automatically, letting them into a dim, dry stairwell.

　　After climbing a few floors, Serizawa knocked politely on an apartment door, then turned the handle and walked in himself.

　　The place was clean and spacious. There was a low table in the middle of the living room, and some soft zabutons scattered along the wall. Hatori sat on the couch, wearing circumaural headphones and staring at the laptop on his lap, waving a casual hello. Some clattering of pots and pans came from the kitchen.

　　"Shibata, sorry to intrude again." Serizawa called out, "Are you still busy? Do you need any help?"

　　"Don't worry. I'm just wrapping it up!"

　　Serizawa walked into the kitchen despite his words, unaware that he had left Reigen alone in the living room. He sat down awkwardly on the couch, his eyes wandering over the décor and furnishings, eventually falling on Hatori, the young man with tousled brown hair. Hatori was staring intently at his laptop, his body still, but the screen was switching between what looked like street surveillance cameras.

　　"......42th Street."

　　When Hatori spoke, Reigen immediately put on a business smile, expressing he was all ears, only to realize that Hatori was speaking into the headset microphone.

　　"Turn right on 7th Avenue. Straight on. Turn right again at 68th Street. Watch out for an old lady." Hatori intermittently read out the street name, seemingly reporting the location of something, "--Uh-huh, copy that. Still on 68th Street. Switching traffic signs in 5 seconds." He tapped his fingers on the couch, "--3...2...1...... Oh. OH, OH. He fell off the bike. Oh, that must hurt."

　　Reigen listened with suspicion, wondering what was going on.

　　"--What? What do you mean, amber lights should last more than 3 seconds? I'm not the fucking traffic department."

　　At the same time, Shimazaki and Minegishi arrived together. Shimazaki wore a sharp, dark autumn coat. He carried a heavy plastic bag full of drinks bought from the supermarket. On the other hand, Minegishi wrapped himself up tightly, as if he had put on everything to keep himself warm: down jacket, thick pants, gloves, scarf, and woollen hat, leaving only a pair of tired and world-weary eyes visible.

　　The living room was warm from the heater. Minegishi moved slowly and took off his outer clothes. Reigen could see why he was so cold. Minegishi was pale and his frame was so thin as if he had never had a good meal.

　　Hatori kept looking at the laptop and extended his hand to Shimazaki without saying a word. Shimazaki took a beer out of the plastic bag, opened it and handed it to Hatori. Then he turned to Reigen:

　　"What would you like? Beer or tea?"

　　"Tea, please." Reigen said reflexively, remembering clearly that he had beaten up this blind man. He'd better stay awake.

　　Serizawa came out of the kitchen and greeted them warmly, then took the plastic bag from Shimazaki, putting the drinks into the fridge. Minegishi didn't say a word, but sat down on the couch, looking quite displeased. Almost imperceptibly, he glanced to the side. A few potted plants in the living room suddenly shifted and bloomed, decorating the space with delicate, beautiful and elegant colors.

　　"--I should be done here, right? Fuck you. I’m off."

　　Hatori finally took off the headphones and closed the laptop.

　　The kitchen was just also finishing up. Shibata came out with his hands wiped on a rag and smiled friendly at Reigen, "We've met before." Reigen put on his most relaxed and confident demeanor, hiding the fact that he didn't even remember him at all. Serizawa and Shimazaki joined them soon after. There were not enough seats on the couch, so Shibata and Serizawa sat on zabutons on the floor, while Shimazaki squeezed in next to Minegishi. They were very close, almost pressed against each other.

　　On the low table were two glasses, a bottle of wheat tea, and four cans of beer. Hatori reached for some ice,then blinked as if he had somehow received a message. He said, "Hey, the delivery has arrived."

　　"I'll get it." Shimazaki said, and instantly disappeared into thin air.

　　A few seconds later, he reappeared with two large bags of steaming food in his hand. Minegishi helped to take them out, Serizawa opened the delivery boxes and Shibata took out the cutlery and plates. Soon, the table was covered with a feast of scrumptious food, filling the room with an appetizing aroma.

　　They clinked glasses to each other, celebrated another month of life, and then eagerly dug into their meal.

　　The atmosphere was quite easy. Most of the conversation centered around work. Both Hatori and Shimazaki worked for the government in the psychic crimes department. Shimazaki made the arrests sound simple and pleasant, obviously enjoying the "somewhat exciting" game. Hatori, on the other hand, downplayed them as if they were just some trivial administrative chores. Instead, he got really agitated while complaining about how unreasonable his boss was. Shibata continued to complain about difficult customers and suppliers. Minegishi, Serizawa and Regen all nodded in understanding.

　　According to their conversation, it was clear that difficult customers were far worse than criminals.

　　They asked about Serizawa's night school and his work at Spirits & Such. Serizawa smiled shyly, and simply said that he was doing well, feeling fulfilled and happy. Reigen took the opportunity to take over the conversation, using his silver tongue and animated gestures to tell several exciting, humorous stories about exorcisms.

　　Hatori laughed out loud, "I envy Serizawa. Your boss is so funny."

　　"He envies everyone for their boss." Shibata winked at Reigen.

　　"Except for Shimazaki." Hatori said, "His boss is a jerk."

　　Minegishi ate very little, leaving a large portion on his plate. Shimazaki took over and finished it. Minegishi curled up deeply into the couch and buried himself in a colorful plant encyclopedia. He hardly spoke the whole night, and it seemed like he didn't care about the conversation. He was simply enjoying the atmosphere, feeling the warmth and breathing of his friends around him.

　　A sweet smell wafted from the kitchen. It was a rich, warm, sunlit wheat aroma unique to the bakery. Shibata went inside to check the oven, then called out to the living room, "Serizawa, can you give me a hand?"

　　"Of course! I'd love to."

　　Serizawa raised his hand. The oven glowed purple, and the door flipped open, sending out a batch of hot, flavorful handmade cookies that fell neatly onto a pretty plate. Shibata carried the cookies back into the living room and took some sliced fruit out of the fridge.

　　Reigen took a cookie and found it shockingly good.

　　Hatori tossed a gamepad to Serizawa, and they started up Street Fighter 6 on the TV. The living room was soon filled with video game music, accompanied by the flashy sound effects of two characters beating each other up.

　　They were both good at it, but Serizawa was clearly dominating, clacking and clattering the joysticks and buttons. From time to time, Hatori's character showed some strange glitches, like doubling the length of his punching arm, or suddenly flashing behind the opponent. But Serizawa remained unfazed and reacted in no time, adapting his fighting to counterattack. His eyes were extremely concentrated as he won match after match. Hatori continued to joke around, unperturbed by his losing streak even though he was cheating.

　　Shibata watched them playing video games and occasionally made a few comments. Shimazaki, on the other hand, was not interested. He started to play a game called "Feeding Minegishi" by himself. In this game, he brought food to Minegishi's mouth. If it was a cookie, Minegishi would tilt his head, keep his eyes on the book, and take a small bite. Then Shimazaki would enjoy the rest. If it was a slice of fruit, he would not react at all. The routine was foolproof.

　　Only once, when Minegishi came across something noteworthy, his breathing became slightly shallow. Shimazaki took the opportunity to offer him a slice of apple. This time, Minegish, without suspicion, instinctively tilted his head and took a bite. The sudden burst of sourness made him freeze. Shimazaki giggled. Minegishi looked up, glaring at him coldly, but his cheeks flushed with pink. The rosy hue stood out against his pale skin.

　　Minegishi grabbed Shimazaki by the collar, pulled him close, and whispered something in his ear. Now it was Shimazaki’s turn to blush.

　　"I love you too. You're welcome, my friends." Hatori said.

　　Shibata teased, "The guest room is always available."

　　Shimazaki smiled with ease. It was Serizawa who was visibly shaken. His character showed a moment of vulnerability, which Hatori seized to execute a special move, finally scoring his first victory of the night.

　　Hatori turned around excitedly, about to ask if they saw that, and met the gaze of Minegishi. He looked around, and the others noticed it as well. Hatori, Minegishi, Shimazaki, and Shibata exchanged quick glances (yes, including Shimazaki, even though his eyes were closed).  Reigen had an ominous feeling rising in his chest.

　　Shibata cleared his throat deliberately, "Hey, um, it just occurred to me that I need to go buy some...... things. A lot of them. I can't carry it all by myself. Serizawa, would you like to come with me?"

　　Wow, that was really lame. Who would ever believe this--

　　"Sure, no problem." Serizawa put down the controller and stood up to get his jacket, "Hatori, let's continue when we get back, okay?" He gave a rare confident smile, "I need to get revenge for that last one."

　　"Anytime."

　　Once Shibata and Serizawa left and the apartment door closed behind them, the atmosphere changed in a second.

　　Hatori waved his hand, turning off the TV, abruptly ending the video game music and visuals. They all fell silent, their attention focused entirely on Reigen. Hatori sat cross-legged on the zabutons on the floor, sipping a can of beer. Shimazaki was still comfortable and relaxed, but now turned his calm, eyeless face to Reigen. Even Minegishi closed his books and stared up at the fraudster. His pupils were dark and deep, appearing indifferent and unreadable. There were heavy dark circles under his eyes.

　　The room was dead silent. Reigen smiled, but broke out in a cold sweat.

　　He had known it.

　　There must be something wrong.

　Minegishi was the first to speak, "Your website says that you are the greatest psychic of the 21st century."

　　"Oh, I'm glad you visited our official website! I'm not a professional programmer. It took a lot of effort to set it up, but it was well worth it. Clients like to search for reviews and service details on the Internet. If the information is open and transparent, it will greatly increase their willingness to visit, which is really helpful for our overall performance."

　　Reigen said with great enthusiasm, ignoring Hatori muttering something about "ancient aesthetics" and Shimazaki joking something about "his blindness being a blessing".

　　"You can also set up a website for your flower shop, or social media, which is very popular these days. You can post flower designs regularly, update the seasonal flowers, and try to attract new customers with those bright, beautiful colors--"

　　Minegishi stared at Reigen. His gaze almost pinned him to the couch.

　　"Prove it."

　　"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

　　"Your psychic powers. You say you're strong. We don't believe it, unless you show us the evidence."

　　Reigen waved his hand dismissively, "I understand, I understand. You want to see my power. However, it’s against my principles. I can't use my power without a real need, as it could cause great harm. You have all seen my disciple, the one who defeated your former boss. He was trained by me from a young age."

　　"Do you know that Serizawa believes in you with all his heart?"

　　Reigen opened his mouth but couldn't find the words. He could only wave his hand in the air, pretending to express some kind of thought. Finally, he lowered his arm in frustration.

　　Shimazaki nudged Minegishi gently, "Stop messing around. Give the thing to him."

　　Minegishi hummed, pulled a small piece of paper out of his plant encyclopedia and handed it to Reigen. He found it to be the size of a business card, smooth and sturdy, with lovely warm color patterns printed all around it. Since Minegishi worked in a flower shop, this was probably one of those thank-you cards that came with a bouquet of flowers.

　　The card had four names written in black, each followed by a phone number.

　　"If you're in an emergency and you can't get your little helpers for some reason or consideration, just ask us for help." Shimazaki explained, "Remember, 'emergencies only.'"

　　"Or we'll make it an 'emergency' ourselves." Minegishi said coldly.

　　Hatori said, "You know, we're not experts in exorcism. But Serizawa said it's similar to a psychic battle, so I guess they're all pretty good at it. Just don't count on me."

　　"Unless you want to record your last words."

　　"Yeah, I can do that... Oh, right, let me borrow that."

　　Before Reigen could react, Hatori grabbed his cell phone. The screen automatically lit up, scrolling through a multitude of incomprehensible commands as the device shivered and burned. Within seconds, the commands cleared and the screen returned to the normal default tableau. Hatori slipped the phone back into his hand.

　　"In case you can't talk, press the hash key three times in a row, and your cell phone will send us the location."

　　Reigen was stunned.

　　"You..."

　　"Don't take this wrong. I hate liars. But Serizawa will be heartbroken if anything happens to you." Minegishi said.

　　"And you seem to have a tendency to impulsive self-destruction." Hatori added.

　　"No criticism." Shimazaki smiled, "We are ex-criminals, ex-anti-socials, ex-terrorists, and now still a legal killer, a voyeur, and a psychopath who loves horticulture. No matter how you live your life, it's all up to you. We’re just offering a consideration, okay?"

　　Soon, Serizawa and Shibata returned from outside.

　　The wind and snow had increased during the night. Even with umbrellas, their clothes were covered with a thin layer of white frost, and their cheeks were red from the cold. They bought more alcohol and barley tea, some steaming oden, and a bucket of popcorn that happened to be on sale at the supermarket. Serizawa looked a little confused, not sure why Shibata was suddenly out shopping. But when they settled back into the living room, he stopped thinking about it, seeing that everyone was so happy and comfortable.

　　Reigen fell backwards into the couch. He watched as Serizawa picked up the gamepad, continuing to dominate Hatori; Minegishi buried himself in the plant encyclopedia again, while Shimazaki played with his hair; and Shibata went to the kitchen to boil hot water for some sake.

　　Perhaps, he could relax a little. Reigen thought.

[heylittleriotact]

Spiked (A Senna One Shot)

Rating: M

Summary: Takes place during Senna's adventuring days prior to them becoming archfey. Once upon a time, the party's cleric - a spirited but naive cleric of Sune - bargained away her soul to a devil to save her companions. As they work together to try and devise a way to get her out of the contract, Senna has a realization about the wording of said contract and comes up with a plan of their own - a plan that must be kept to himself if it has any hope of working. She might never forgive him for it... but at least she'll be free.

As is tradition, chaos ensues.

Read on ao3 or under the cut

@allofthebarks - Thank you for bringing Nayeli into the world. No hard feelings, yeah? 😘

Should the promisee, at any time after entering into this compact and in perpetuity, through any action, inaction, spoken or unspoken word, thought, feeling, or other such gesture, interfere with the promisor claiming the immortal soul of the promisee, the promisee shall be found in

breach of contract.

The hellish jargon ran through Senna’s head over and over, only one of many clauses designed to make escaping the contract impossible but easily the most damning of them: despite knowing the importance of breaking free of her contract, any interference on Nayeli’s part would be an automatic breach of its terms and the young cleric’s soul would be automatically forfeit. Though he’d discovered in studying the contract, that in and of itself presented an opportunity.

This could have been avoided entirely of course had she not bargained away her soul to a devil to save them from a grisly death at the vicious claws of a Bone Devil.

He wished there was another way, but as he considered the clause backwards and forwards until he could repeat it by heart, Senna came to terms with what the solution would require. 

Unfortunately the nature of his solution meant that he couldn’t disclose his plan to Ennic or Kali. Kali could likely be trusted if worst came to worst, but Ennic lacked subtlety, and if it turned out badly… no… it would be better for their hands to be clean… better that they had plausible deniability.

He came to a stop on the street corner under a lamp whose light fell just short of the opposite corner. He looked across the intersection and waited for the glint of a pair of eyes in the shadows and the slightest inclination of the head they belonged to before crossing casually, vanishing into the darkness. 

“Having a hard time sleeping. What have you got?” Direct and to the point - that was the best way to manage these transactions. Little did the thin, pale pusher know that there wasn’t a substance in the world that could conk Senna out. Not anymore. Elves couldn’t be magically put to sleep, but naturally occurring substances could do the trick - at least they could before Senna developed his immunity to poisons. Drinking had certainly lost much of its appeal since…

“Look well enough rested to me, feyling,” the pusher snorted, picking his ear with one hand and digging around in the pockets of his well-made but street-worn jacket. Beautiful golden haired Eladrin with tanned skin and pristine clothing were likely not this fellow’s typical clientele. 

“Bad memories,” Senna claimed curtly, following the pusher’s lead and sinking further back from the shadows. “Haven’t tranced in days. I’d rather sleep and deal with nightmares if it meant I caught a couple of hours of rest.” 

“Yeah, you and every other broken heart in this city I’d wager.” The pusher withdrew a small vial from his pocket at last, holding it up in the dark - he was half elven, he knew Senna could see it just as well as he could. “Milk of the poppy. This’ll send you off to dreamland faster than you can say ‘Menzoberranzan’ - two gold for this, got halves that’ll cost you one.” 

“I’ll take this one,” Senna said, reaching into his tunic and withdrawing the coin. 

The gold was extended but not released until the pusher dropped the vial of white liquid into Senna’s waiting palm. It vanished inside the gaudy jacket and the pusher licked his lips. “Good business, sir.” 

Senna dipped his chin in a polite nod to the pusher and turned to set off before pausing. “What is the ideal dosage for this? I would hate to overindulge… I just want to sleep.” 

The pusher threw his hands up in the air, “Oh yeah! Gotta get it right with this stuff or you might never wake up. There’s four doses in there - little lines on the side of the glass shows you how much is in a dose. Now this is really good shit, so a strapping statue of a man like yourself would find the best sort of relaxation in two doses, I’d risk three if you’re really in the mood to sleep for a week, but I wouldn’t down the entire vial in one go - like I said: you may never wake up if you take too much of this beautiful substance, sound good?” He clicked his tongue and threw a crooked snarl that Senna could only assume was a smile his way. 

“Perfect, thank you.” He bowed his head again, pocketed the vial, and walked out of the shadows into the well lit street, fiddling with the waistband as if he’d innocently stepped out of view to take a piss. 

The next evening, Senna sat at a table in a secret demiplane with Kali, Ennic, Nayeli, and her father, Malek: the hulking Efreeti they had freed from the dreadful prison in the fire plane where he had languished for the entirety of his daughter’s life until very recently. 

Upon his return to the inn the night before, Senna had spoken with Ennic and Kali while Nayeli was doing her evening prayers and the three had hatched a plan: bring Nayeli to her father’s safehouse and somehow talk her into staying with him while they ventured to the hells to deal with the matter of her contract… do everything they could to hang the fact that she had a lifetime full of memories to make with her absent father over her head and hope that it was enough to guilt her into sitting this one out. 

It was a terrible idea, and arguably opened her to knowingly breaching the contract if she agreed to it - which she wouldn’t, judging by what Senna knew of the stubborn cleric by now - but no one else needed to know that. 

All that mattered was that they were here, around this table, sharing a sumptuous feast from Malek’s magical pantry as father and daughter continued to acquaint themselves amongst cheerful company. Wine was poured, truths were told, jokes were made and memories too. 

Timeless as this plane was, hours flew by in effortless enjoyment. It was hard to come by guiltless laughter and frivolity for the four thrown-together adventurers these days. Senna found himself enjoying the novelty of well-wasted time with others… a feeling he hadn’t felt deserving of in centuries. 

But there was still work to be done. 

He flipped his silken golden hair over his shoulder with one hand and reached over the table, making to nudge Ennic’s scaled hand away from the plate of massive olives - one of the many delectable treats on the table. “S’cuse me, your lordship.” A jesting mockery of the white dragonborn’s proud noble heritage. 

“Hey now!” Ennic chided, the air around his nostrils clouding as he huffed with indignance. 

Senna popped an olive in his mouth, meeting his scaled companion’s glacial eyes purposefully as he slid the fruit over his tongue and delicately gnawed at the soft flesh, stripping it away from the pit with his molars. 

Kali was pouring herself another glass of wine. Nayeli was speaking loudly to her father, her hands flashing through the air as she regaled him with some tale. Malek stared at her, attention rapt - taking in every word, every motion, every breath of his daughter as if she might vanish into dust any moment. He clearly adored her, and that fact made Senna more nervous than anything. The love of a father… not a feeling he knew anything of, of course.

“You seem… tense,” Senna said, lifting his hand up to draw the naked pit from his mouth, watching the dragonborn’s eyes follow the path of his fingers all the way from his lips to the bowl where the other pits were piled up. His left hand popped the cork from the vial he had procured the night before and as he dropped the pit that was in his right hand, his left extended over the table in a precise, fluid movement. It passed over Nayeli’s cup of wine - one, two - then back to him, his fingers snagging another olive, the half empty vial secreted in his palm and briskly tucked back into a pocket. “Want to talk about it?” He flashed Ennic what he knew to be a devastatingly coy smile. 

Ennic squinted then rolled his eyes, picking up his cup of passionfruit juice and swirling it with dignity. “Ha-ha. Mister I-Hate-Rich-People-And-Look-Good-Doing-It-Because-I’m-A-Pretty-Elf trying to bully me around because of my upbringing. Soooo predictable!” He took a sip and pursed his lips defiantly at Senna. 

Senna arched a brow and chuckled. “I only wanted an olive. You’re the one that made it personal.” He made a point of drawing his lower lip through his teeth, earning a faint rush of pink that sashayed over Ennic’s snout. Next to the dragonborn, he marked the movement of Nayeli taking a big drink of her wine - she was well in her cups and well past the polite sipping she’d been doing earlier. She slammed it back on the table, spilling a few drops before launching back into her story. 

“Look, I don’t know you three the way you know each other, but sometimes I get the sense that you’re not telling me everything.” Ennic said.

Senna smiled drolly around the second olive, eyes lidded as he stretched his bare arms up over his head luxuriously. “How does one put a definition to something as inescapably broad as ‘everything’ though?” He worked the meat from the olive once more and maneuvered the pit with his tongue to the front of his mouth where he gripped it very, very gently with his incisors. 

Ennic’s rose-pink blush deepened, and his eyes darted away. “Stop that.” 

The pit fell into Senna’s waiting palm and he chucked it effortlessly into the bowl. “Stop what? I’m only eating olives… I wasn’t aware that’s a crime in this demiplane.”

Ennic’s neck frills flared, quivering slightly and throwing off flecks of frost as his claws dug into the table and he leaned over the banquet to Senna. He opened his mouth to retort at the exact same time Nayeli very loudly declared, “There were orgies in Sune’s temple, but not as many as you would think!” She shot to her feet, downing another mouthful of wine and pointing at nothing somewhere over Malek’s shoulder. “The lookie-loo tourists were verrrrrry disappointed… buncha perverts…” She frowned, swayed, looked directly at Senna as confusion flashed across her face, then comprehension. Then the frown became an expression of rage. “You fucking dare–” she spat at Senna, and then she collapsed back down to the bench and folded face first onto the table. Her goblet rolled from her hand, its contents staining the weathered wood. 

The room turned crimson, then white. Steam billowed off of Ennic as the windowless sanctuary they occupied became unbearably hot in an instant.

“WHAT?!” Malek was on his feet, fists the size of swans slamming onto the table. “MURDERERS!” He roared, white flame blazing from his eyes and curling up his brow.

Huge. He was huge: his arms were easily as wide around as Senna and he towered over his daughter’s so-called friends, sparks spilling from his mouth as he looked at each of them in turn as if deciding who to roast first.

At the sudden sound of Nayeli hitting the table, Kali had sprung away from the bench, pressing her back to the wall and holding her daggers before her defensively, lip curled in a fanged snarl as her pointed tail cut through the air around her. 

Ennic was staring with an awestruck expression at Malek, and Senna clambered over the table to stand between the enraged Efreeti and the dragonborn, hands held high. Between his own considerable height and the added height of the table he was nearly eye-to-eye with Malek.

“No! No murder! She’s fine - just sleeping. I swear it.” 

This. This was why Ennic and Kali couldn’t know of his plan: better he be subjected to a molten ass-kicking at the hands of an extremely pissed off Efreeti than all of them if he couldn’t talk him down. 

Senna ducked under the fiery fist that was barreling towards his face and nudged a pile of rolls off of a silver platter, kicking it up into his hand as he straightened. “She’s fine, see?” He knelt on the table and with deliberately exaggerated tenderness turned Nayeli’s head so she was no longer facedown on the table. He held the platter in front of her mouth and angled it so Malek could see her breath fog the polished surface. 

This appeared to at least somewhat quell Malek’s rage as he appeared to be gripping the edge of the table in a concerted effort to restrain himself from throwing another punch at Senna. The wood under his fingers sizzled and blackened. 

“I would very much like to know why you think you can come into my home and poison my daughter in front of me and leave this place alive.” Sparks flew from his mouth with each word. “Explain.” He demanded in a tone that promised painful death should the explanation not satisfy. 

“Not poisoned either - it’s Milk of The Poppy - I ensured the dosage would do her no harm. She’s sleeping and will be in perfect health when she wakes.” Not giving Malek time to think longer or ask more questions, Senna said, “And they had nothing to do with this, let’s make that clear.” Senna pointed at Kali and Ennic. “This was entirely my idea, and they had no foreknowledge of it, so whatever consequences are earned are mine alone. If you decide you want to melt my skin off or wear my guts as a necklace you’re welcome to, but you have to let these two go.” 

“Why?” Snarled Malek, and Senna had the presence of mind to put some distance between himself and Nayeli. 

“I brought her here because I knew she’d be safe. Here. With her father.” He tossed the platter down onto the disarrayed table with a hollow clang and straightened, lifting his chin and pushing his shoulders back. “You’ve read her contract - Nayeli can’t knowingly do anything to interfere or tamper with its fulfillment.” He repeated the clause in question word-for-word for Malek to underline the fact that anything done by Nayeli - passively or actively - that involved any provable knowledge or participation in events that concerned the contract would immediately and unequivocally put her in breach of it, condemning her soul instantly to the hells instead of at the time of her death. 

Malek swore.

“So when she wakes up and the three of us are gone, you’re going to explain everything to her: tell her how relieved we were when she passed out, and how we knew you’d be furious, but we’ve been trying to find a way to shake her dead weight for awhile now, and dumping her here with you seemed like the best possible option. Really sell it - make us sound like assholes who secretly hated her and only put up with her for as long as we did out of necessity.” The words were cruel and untrue - he quite liked Nayeli and was grateful to know her - but Senna’s feelings about the matter were inconsequential. “We have a world to save - the Queen of Chaos to foil - we don’t have time to squander away in a dangerous attempt to get one naive, impulsive cleric out of an idiotic contract she made with a devil.” 

“You are going to the hells without her… to break her contract without her knowing.” Malek said quietly, the fire in his eyes guttering and then dying out entirely. “To save her.”

“And she cannot learn the truth of that under any circumstances.” Senna said, deadly serious now. “Even if she becomes suspicious or guesses the truth of it - you must not tell her where we’ve gone and why… no matter how persistent she is… and I am familiar with her incredibly tenacious spirit: my sympathies in advance.” 

Malek considered Senna, crossing his muscled arms and cocking his head as he did so. “Fate is unkind in the fact that you have known my daughter for more days than I have, Eladrin, but I knew her mother and the cruel, small-minded family she was born to. I know that they rejected my child when her mother and everyone else in Sune’s temple died and I was locked away, unable to be there for her. I know that their refusal to accept her created deep wounds in her heart, and for a long time she believed there was no one left in the world who would care for her - about her. She told me this, you see.” His eyes landed on the snoozing form of Nayeli and they softened further as they filled with love as he stared at the girl with hair that smoldered and danced like flame. “But one does not need to be her father to know that the price of your deception is not cheap: if I lead her to believe that you and your companions joyfully abandoned her…” blazing eyes returned to Senna’s. “She will never forgive you for it. Not even if you are successful in your journey and find yourself in a position to eventually reveal the truth.” 

The room was brutally silent - the only sound was the soft rhythm of Nayeli’s breathing as she slept, blissfully unaware of the arrangements being made without her knowledge.

“Little love lost there to begin with, I think,” Senna smiled joylessly. “I never really got the sense she cared much for me anyway. May she lead a long and healthy life and hate me until her dying day without having the destination of her immortal soul lurking in the shadows of every memory she makes.” 

Malek appraised Senna’s defiantly cool expression again and said, “You are a good man, Eladrin,” and Senna knew he was no longer liable to rip his head off and use his skull as a teacup. 

It would be polite to respond in gratitude to the compliment, but Senna couldn’t bring himself to, so instead he climbed down off the table and started righting bottles and cups and trays that had been tipped and flipped when Malek slammed his fists into the table. 

Apparently the Efreeti took Senna’s silence as an invitation to continue. “Do you want to know how I know that, Eladrin?” 

“Do tell,” Senna said nonchalantly, setting a candelabra upright. Ennic and Kali silently began assisting with tidying the table.

“No daughter of mine, no daughter of hers –” He pointed at the portrait on the wall of a stunning woman with rich brown skin and thick, wavy black hair that draped over her shoulders and chest. “- would make a deal with the Archduchess of Malbolge to save a trio of strangers from a Bone Devil unless she saw something worth saving in them.” 

Traditionally, whenever the Bone Devil business came up, Senna enjoyed teasing Nayeli by reminding her that he was never actually in any danger from it because he was busy sprinting through the network of tunnels underneath the town of Rhalden in an attempt to locate and disable the stockpiled explosives set at various points that would blow the town into the sky if they were detonated. Little point in slaying the Bone Devil if they were going to be blown to bits for their trouble, he figured. 

Nayeli preferred to assert that he was actually running away because he was a coward. 

Of course, he wasn’t about to share this ongoing bit of repartee with Malek, so he capitulated, placed a hand over his heart, and bowed his head in silent thanks. 

“How’d you spike her drink?” Ennic grumbled, scooping mashed potatoes back into a bowl with his hand. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice: I am very hard to pull one over on.” 

“Evidently not when there’s flirting and olives involved,” Senna quipped, burying his heavy heart under self-congratulatory taunting. Just because he came up with this plan knowing full well that Nayeli may never find it in herself to forgive him for it, didn’t mean he had to feel good about it. “‘T’was far from my first time slipping a substance into someone’s drink undetected.” 

“Well you’re terrifyingly good at it,” Ennic declared in his jaunty brogue - less silken than Senna’s, with perhaps a bit more flourish on certain consonants. “A fine reminder that it would be in the poor interest of anyone to piss you off.” 

Clever dragonborn. 

“Speaking of pissed off: aren’t you worried she’ll come after us?” Ennic asked Malek. “There are people on the Prime that want us dead very badly. If she goes off on her own trying to track us down and she dies before we can end her contract, she’s hellbound.”

Not so clever, perhaps: Malek immediately stiffened at the mere hypothetical mention of his daughter dying under his watch. 

“I am confident that I will be able to convince my child that she must remain here with me for the time being,” he rumbled, his tone cautionary. Senna wished he’d had the foresight to spike Ennic’s juice too. 

“Look, I know you think you can, and you haven’t had as much time to get to know her the way we have, but as Senna said: she can be wildly recalcitrant, and–”

“Ennic.” Kali barked, speaking for the first time since dinner had gone awry. The pretty tiefling was more of an actions over words person, and Senna admired that about her. “I think he knows how to deal with Nayeli better than you,” she drawled. 

“I’m not saying he doesn’t!” Ennic said defensively. “I just think that rather than running the risk of her coming to any harm, it would be better to take… precautions.” 

The fire returned to Malek’s eyes at the implication of the word, and his voice was a dangerous rumble. “Are you suggesting that I imprison my own daughter?” 

Ennic’s neck frills ruffled, but he barrelled on. “You have that fancy closet that Dezzy was locked in. Would it be so bad if you knew she was safe?”

Senna knew what this was. Having joined their group unexpectedly part way through their adventure, Ennic had needed to earn their trust - and he had - but it was no secret that he still felt like an outsider whose ideas were given less consideration than they deserved. In this case, he obviously felt personally slighted that Senna hadn’t deemed him trustworthy enough to share his plan with him, so now he was trying to tack on his contribution… clumsily.

It came from a place of hurt, not malice, but Senna felt no regret about his choice not to involve him. Hells, if Ennic wanted to hate him too, so be it.

“I am not condemning my daughter to the same unearned punishment that I was subjected to for her entire life!” Malek vowed.

“I think we’re all on the same page in regard to the best approach with Nayeli’s delicate situation,” Senna said, his voice taking on a deliberate edge as he stared down Ennic: hurt feelings or not, he hadn’t orchestrated this plan and personally assumed the risk of being on the receiving end of Malek’s rage only for the druid to undo his work. “I do not think we need to meddle further.” He placed a hand on Ennic’s forearm: a gesture of comfort… and warning. 

Ennic shook free and opened his mouth once more. “Listen, let me just–” 

Before anyone could interject, Ennic brought his hands up and there was a brilliant flash of starlight that turned the room white. When it faded and Senna could see again, his eyes were immediately drawn to the place where Nayeli had been sitting. 

Where she had been resting at the table, there now snoozed a turtle, its shell the same fiery shade as Nayeli’s hair.

“You absolute fucking idiot…” Senna breathed. 

“Ennic! What the fuck?!” Kali snapped.

“There! Now she’s a turtle and can’t escape on you!” Ennic hurled the declaration at Malek, belligerence clear.

Senna hardly considered himself a father - that title belonged to people who actually deserved it - like Malek. But despite that, and despite the fact that he’d never actually met his child who he knew to be alive and well, Senna knew precisely one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt:

If someone had taken it upon themselves to transform his flesh and blood into a different creature in front of him without said flesh and blood’s consent… it would most certainly be the last thing the caster of the spell ever did. 

Malek seemed to share a similar mindset and the temperature in the room rose once again, along with the Efreeti’s voice. 

Senna blocked it out and picked up his own wine goblet from the table, refilling it before raising it in silent toast to Ennic, who was understandably not looking at him, but if he had been would have been met with a wry expression of: you’re-on-your-own-with-this-mess-friend. 

He drank deeply and found what appeared to be a relatively safe spot against the wall where Kali lingered. He leaned against the stone and observed as the dragonborn sought to undo the damage he’d done, and as his eyes lingered on the slumbering turtle, he found himself missing his son in that moment. He became caught up in wondering what his hair was like, or if his laugh sounded like his mother’s. 

Guilt turned his stomach as he fabricated an image in his mind of his child - a grown man by now, more likely than not - and he couldn’t let go of the sense that the indulgence was greedy and undeserved. 

He may be on the same level as Malek when it came to knowing what a father would put on the line to save their child, but Malek deserved a relationship with his child in a way that Senna did not. 

He probably does laugh like her… I bet it sounds beautiful.

[bigasswritingmagnet]

Meet-Cute-ish

Rating: T Fandom: Girl Genius Summary:

Or: Hey Ognian, Why Does Getting Impaled With a Sword Remind You of Meeting Your Wife?

Wherein Ognian is surprisingly durable for a human, Radka is inescapably attracted to men with big hearts and empty heads, and romance is found in unexpected places.

AO3 Link

Radka was in trouble.

It wasn’t any kind of trouble she hadn’t faced before, but she’d been caught unawares. She had no real excuse for it; she had simply not been paying attention. When or if she got out of this, she would spend the rest of the day kicking herself repeatedly. She lived on the road! She knew how dangerous it was, especially this far from town!  

Radka stayed in the middle of the bridge. In front of her, standing at the other end, was a man. He was scruffy and scarred, and wore a nasty smile.

There would be another man behind her. She was supposed to think there was only one, the one who had appeared oh so casually before her, but Radka had dealt with situations like this before. Men like this never travelled alone.

She was lucky that there were only two.

It was a footbridge, large enough for one cart, so no chance of dodging if she tried to run past either man. The bridge was over a river, but it was at the bottom of the small ravine and not very deep, so she couldn’t jump.

Behind her, she could hear the footsteps of the second man trying to sneak up behind her.

“I shan’t waste our time pretending this is a pleasant little chat,” Radka said. “Let me guess: you want me to pay a toll, and the toll is going to be an exorbitant amount of money, or sex. Yes?”

“Smart girl,” the bandit said, grinning.

“One does try.”

Radka whirled around and lunged for the bandit behind her. There was a shout from behind her, which she ignored. The second man had not been expecting this in the slightest, and stumbled back, fumbling for his sword. By the time he got it out, she was on him, burying her dagger in his throat. He stumbled back, dropping his sword and clutching at his throat.

Radka kicked his legs out from under him and snatched up his sword.

Someone was coming up behind her, she had no time to think, only time to act. She spun around and in one smooth movement drove the sword straight through the chest of a third, completely different man, and out the other side.  

The headless body of the other bandit lay several meters away. The man in front of her was holding a battleaxe, his hand just beneath the blood-smeared axe-head.

They looked at each other.

They looked at the sword.

They looked at each other again.

Radka abruptly let go of the sword, which stayed comically in place, and clamped her hands over her mouth.

“Hyu stabbed me,” the man said, in a slightly accusatory voice.  

“You didn’t say anything!” Radka said, slightly hysterical. Her hand reached out and briefly touched the hilt of the sword, then jerked back.  

“Vy did hyu stab me?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

The man fell to his knees, swayed, and then collapsed sideways. Automatically, Radka dropped to her knees, reaching for him. She stopped, hands hovering helplessly over the still, unmoving body.  

The sun was only just making it over the mountains, but even in the grey dawn light, she could see he was no bandit. He was about her age, with shaggy blonde hair over a round, boyish face. He was dressed plainly, although his undyed shirt was rapidly turning crimson as blood blossomed around the sword still jutting out of his chest.

He looked like every other small town boy she saw on her travels, although she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the battleaxe. There was no village near here that she knew of, but there were some farms. Someone who would know him. Someone would be willing to come get him.

She couldn’t leave him like this. He’d died helping her, even if she hadn’t actually needed it. At the very least, she could take the sword out. Let his mother bury a body that didn’t look like a cheap prop in a stageplay.  

Radka put her hand on his shoulder, bracing herself to pull the sword free.

The man twitched and groaned and Radka fell back with a yelp. To her astonishment, his eyes opened and he looked straight at her. Radka stared, open mouthed, and tried to think of something to say. Are you alright was idiotic, but how are you not dead seemed rude.

“Hy’z Ognian.” His mouth managed to shift into a weak grin that was quite cute, in a dopey, dying farmboy sort of way.

“Radka,” she managed. “You’re very…durable.”  

“Ya, Hy feel like Hy should be dead by now,” he said, his voice faintly puzzled.

“I think the blade might be stopping up the wound.”

With some difficulty, Ognian looked down at his chest.  

“Hyu tink dot vill keep me alive?”

“Longer than you’d live if we pulled it out, but not that much longer.” 

Ognian tried to shift into a more comfortable position, but the blade caught between two of the bridge’s paving stones, jarring the sword. He went pale—well, paler—and let out a strangled gasp. Radka grabbed his shoulder and steadied him.

“What were you thinking, coming up behind me like that? I had it under control!”

“Hy vanted to be de big hero, save de pretty girl from de bad guys,” Ognian said, with a sheepish grin.

“And I would be so grateful I’d reward you for your chivalry?” Radka asked. Ognian’s grin got a little more sheepish.

“Maybe just a kiss.”

“Well joke’s on you, rocks for brains,” she said. “I’m not even that pretty.”

“Hy tink hyu cute.”

“It’s dark, and you’re dying,” Radka pointed out. Ognian looked down at himself again, his expression now a little sad.

“Ya. Iz a little unfair. Dyink on my first raid, end Hy didn’t even do it in a real fight.”

“Raid? What raid?”

“Hy’s vit de Heterodyne. Hy rides vit de Jӓgers. Vell. Rode, Hy guess.”

Radka’s mouth dropped open.

“You ride with the Jӓgers.”

“Ya.”

“The Heterodyne’s raiders.”

“Ya.”

“On your way out of the valley to loot and pillage innocent folk across the countryside.”

“Ya.”

“And you were going to rescue me from bandits.”

“Ya.”

Radka waited to see if this inspired any realization of hypocricy, but Ognian just shut his eyes.

“Hy hope dey finds me,” he said, his voice a little weaker. “Dun really vant to get left out here for de birds, hyu know?”

Radka gnawed on the inside of her cheek.

One the one hand, Ognian had helped her, even if she hadn’t needed it.

On the other hand, Ognian was a willing member of a group that spread death and destruction on the whims of a family that wouldn’t know sanity if they grew it in a lab themselves.

“I’m in a bit of a predicament here,” she said to Ognian. “On moral grounds, I should leave you here to die.”  

With great effort, Ognian lifted his head and looked around.

“Dere’s no churches around here,” he said, with genuine puzzlement.

Radka stared at him. She shut her eyes and groaned, letting her head fall back.

“I’m going to do it,” she said to the universe at large. “I’m going to save one of the Heterodyne’s raiders because he’s cute and stupid.”

“Hyu tink Hy’z cute?”

“I think you’re an idiot.” Radka grabbed his arm and heaved, but only managed to get him halfway to sitting upright. He was heavier than he looked, and not helping her in the slightest. 

“Stop it, dot hurts,” he whined.

“You’re travelling with a Heterodyne, Ognian. If anyone could save you from a sword through the chest, it’ll be one of them. Get up.”  

But Ognian shook his head.

“No, dey’s all gonna make fun of me,” he said. "Hy vuz only fighting two guys und Hy got stabbed by de girl Hy vuz trying to save."

“You’d rather die?”

Ognian actually hesitated.

“Listen, I won’t tell them I stabbed you, if you don’t tell them I stabbed you. Okay? You were the big hero and one of the bad guys stabbed you while you were protecting me. It was very dramatic and heroic. Now get up.”

It took a lot of work on both their parts, and Ognian was nearly ghost-white with pain, but they got him on his feet. His knees wobbled and they staggered sideways as his weight nearly dragged her down again.

“Which way is camp?” she asked.

Ognian waved a vague hand in the direction, which was, of course, uphill.

“Okay, Ognian, let’s do this. One step at a time.”

“Oggie,” the man said. “My friends call me Oggie.”

“If you survive, I will call you Oggie. Walk.”

“Somevun’s coming,” Stosh said. Gorb’s eyes flicked to him and then back to the road, narrowing with annoyance.

“Yeah, Hy can see dot.”

“Two somevuns.”

“Hy can see dot, too.”

“Hy tink it’s de new kid. Vut’s his name?”

“Ognian?”

“Ya, dot vun.” Suddenly Stosh grinned and lowered his voice. “Dere's a lady vit him.”

Gorb squinted and then grinned, irritation forgotten in light of a new target.

“Hoo, look at him, she must heff vorn him out good. Vut’s he carryink? Looks kind of like a...like…a…”

By now, Ognian and his companion had gotten close enough that both men could see the sunlight illuminating what was very definitely a sword very definitely sticking straight out of Ognian’s chest.

Stosh and Gorb stood frozen, mouths open in horror, as the two arrivals stumbled towards them. Ognian was on his feet, but only barely; the woman beside him was working hard to keep him upright.

“Are you going to do something or are you going to stare?” the woman demanded.

“Vut happened?”

“What does it look like?”

Ognian’s knees gave out and he dropped. Stosh and Gorb lunged forward and just managed to grab him before he could hit the ground.

“Vy’d hyu leave it in?” Stosh demanded, reaching for the hilt of the sword. She slapped his hand away, hard.

“Because it will kill him if you take it out!”

“Ve iz gonna need help vit dis,” Gorb said. Ognian, hanging limply in their hands, groaned.

“No, really?” the woman said. Her sarcasm was lost on the Jӓgers.

The commotion had attracted attention. Heads were poking out of tents, people were rising from where they were lighting cooking fires, craning to see. Stosh turned to the crowd and called out.

“Somevun go get Gkika!”

As one, every man in earshot shouted “Not it!”

-

“General Gkika! General Gkika!”

Gkika sat up in her bed, but did not open her eyes. She took in a deep, calming breath and let it out. She was a general now. Generals did not attack people for waking them up early. They calmly and reasonably found out which individual was responsible for the waking, and attacked them.

She calmly and reasonable wrenched open the flap of her tent; the man on the other side flinched and backed up hurriedly, nearly tripping over his own feet. He raised both hands in supplication.

“Ognian’s hurt,” he burbled. “He’s really, really hurt.”

“For gettink me voken up like dis, he had better be dyink,” Gkika snarled.

Three minutes later, Gkika was in the medical tent and Ognian was laid out on the table, his breathing slow and rasping, the hilt of the sword rising and falling with the motion.

“Yez," she said, flatly, “dot’s a pretty reasonable reason to vake me up."

Gkika took Ognian's wrist and felt for his pulse. It was very faint. She peeled up an eyelid and noted the pupil shrunk down to a pinprick. 

"Somebody go get Lord Heterodyne,” Gkika ordered. “Hy gon need him just to get dis ting out vitout killink him." She put hands on her hips."How did hyu effen do dis to hyuself?"

“Via an ill-fated attempt at chivalry, I'm afraid."

The voice was low and musical, so sweet that the unattractiveness of the face it came from gave Gkika a start. The rest of her was a pretty enough sight—soft red curls, elegant fingers, a pleasing figure. But the face.

"Und who are hyu?"

“My name is Radka. I'm a traveling performer. I had a couple of roughs stop me on the bridge. Ognian here decided—and these are his words, not mine—to be a hero and save the pretty girl.”

“So vere did de pretty girl go?” someone asked. There was a ripple of laughter. Radka smiled with poisonous sympathy.

“Ohh,” she said, “And you think all the barmaids actually do find you funny, don’t you?”

The eruption of laughter made everyone jump. The Heterodyne had arrived, unnoticed, and now grinned broadly at Radka.

“She’s mean!” he said. “Hy like her!”

He took one look at Ognian and his eyebrows went up, amusement vanishing. Approaching the table, he called for a light and leaned in close to examine the sword. He did not touch it, but turned his head this way and that, examining it from all angles, front and back.

As he did, Gkika moved efficiently around the tent, setting out surgical tools that could have doubled as implements of torture—and probably had. At last, the Heterodyne straightened up.

“Red fire,” he said, genuinely impressed. “Dis is one of de new ones, yes?”

“Dis is Ognian, Lord Heterodyne,” Gkika confirmed.

"Are hyu alive in dere, Ognian?"

Ognian actually managed to open his eyes, though not much. He groaned.

“Hyu're not just alive, hyu're awake!” the Heterodyne said, laughing delightedly. “How are hyu feeling?”

“Not so good,” Ognian mumbled.

“Awake and talking! We have a real tough one here." Lord Heterodyne put a surprisingly gentle hand on the back of Ognian’s neck and nodded at Gkika, who handed him a syringe. “Hokay, Ognian, Hy am going to fix hyu up, but Hy vill put hyu to sleep first, because Hy don’t tink hyu need to be dot tough.”

Ognian looked very relieved at the idea of unconsciousness. 

“Nnhh,” he managed.

The Heterodyne pressed the needle into the vein in Ognian’s inner elbow. After a few seconds, Ognian’s eyes rolled up and with a sigh, he went limp.

“Gkika, hyu stay,” Lord Heterodyne said. “Effrybody else, get out.”

He did not need to ask twice.

When the tent was empty, the Heterodyne did not move right away, continuing to examine Ognian. When he spoke, it was with a soft and thoughtful tone that was, for this Heterodyne, very unusual.

“Hy will offer dis one de draught, if he lives.”

Gkika started.

“Now?” she blurted out. Hurriedly she ammended “Dot vould be very…soon.”

But the Heterodyne was shaking his head.

“Not today, not yet,” the Heterodyne said. “But in a few years, when he has proven himself in battle…Yes. Hy will offer him de draught.” He grinned, his teeth almost Jӓger-sharp. “Dis one was born to be Jӓgerkin.”

-

It took Ognian a few minutes to realize he was alive, and then a few more to realize he was awake. He felt no pain, just a distant floaty feeling. In fact, his fingers and toes felt lighter than the rest of him, like they might drift away.

Because he had been attended to by the Heterodyne, Ognian opened his eyes and lifted a hand in front of his face. Wiggling his fingers, he managed to confirm yes, they were all there and seemed to be the same fingers he'd had the day before.

“So we’re in a comedy after all,” a voice said, dryly. “Good. Nobody wants tragedies about Heterodyne raiders. Although slapstick is harder to get across in a one woman show.”

Seated beside him, perched on a stool and plucking at a mandolin, was the woman he had tried to rescue. The sun was high and the tent was bright, and for the first time, he could clearly see her face.

“Oh,” he said.

Ognian was not the sharpest sword in the armory, but he was pretty good with people, and even floating on whatever the Heterodyne had given him, he caught her reaction. It was the briefest of moments, hidden so smoothly behind a mask of amusement it spoke of a lifetime of practice. But he saw it: the bitter twist of her lips, the flash in her eyes. It spoke of the worst kind of disappointment—the kind you knew had been coming, but had dared to hope ever so slightly maybe wouldn’t, this time.

“Oh indeed,” she said. “All that trouble for a face like this.”

“No,” he said, firmly. “Ve vuz both right. Hyu iz ogly, but hyu iz ogly in a cute vay.”

He had expected her to brush it off again, to say something about how he was halfway to dreamland and suffering severe blood loss, but she simply stared at him. For the first time, she seemed genuinely at a loss for words.

“I…I don’t even know what that means,” she said.

“Means de face izn’t much, but hyu use it vell. Hyu got a pretty smile.”

Radka gave him an odd look. Wordlessly, she leaned over the bed, put her hand to his cheek, and kissed him. It was a lingering kiss, but Ognian would have liked it to linger a lot longer before she straightened up and gave him a genuine smile.

“Thank you for the rescue,” she said, and rose to her feet.

“Vere hyu going?”

"I have been asked to give a performance for the Heterodyne tonight. One of your very accommodating generals agreed to meet with me after you woke up, to tell me what kinds of stories he likes and thus increase my chances of survival."

"Did hyu vait for me to vake up just so hyu could kiss me?"

The blush on her cheeks got a little darker.

"I was waiting to see how the story would end," she said, archly.

"Vhich story?"

"This one. All stories are either tragedies or comedies, but you only know which one once it's over. If I leave early, the story remains incomplete, open-ended, a deeply unsatisfying mystery."

Ognian blinked, his eyes slightly unfocused.

"Maybe hyu come back after de performance und run dot by me again ven de pain medicine wears off."

But she shook her head.

"I don't want to risk overstaying my welcome. Besides," she said, walking away. "I'm a wanderer. It's time for me to wander off." 

She paused by the tend flap and gave him a smile that made her almost not ugly at all.

"But I’m certain I’ll wander this way again.”

Then she was gone.

After a moment, she stuck her head back in.

“Just be a little more careful next time, would you? I like my men stupid, but not that stupid.”

Ognian stared after her, wondering what on earth that could mean.